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Darkness and Dawn 


By 

MRS. A. STEPHENS HURLOCK 



Dedicated to my Daughter 

MRS. A. H. BRINCKERHOFF 



Wvi DFFiSg 
DEC 2Z 




4 ■' * 



JAN 28 1918 ^ 


Darkness and Dawn 


The sun was sinking slowly behind the western hills as 
a young girl tripped lightly over the meadow singing gayly 
the while. Around her the birds caroled merrily, and their 
sweet songs mingled with the notes of the whippoorwill, the 
verdant green of Summer’s velvety carpet, dotted here and 
there with clover, daisies and buttercups, and the sky with 
its rainbow tints of purple, red and gold, together formed a 
scene of unsurpassing beauty and grandeur. The maiden 
seemed but to add a finishing touch to a scene worthy 
of an artist’s skill ; in her hand she held a straw hat with 
pink ribbons, which she swung carelessly, unmindful that 
the nodding heads of the flowers were being injured by the 
process. She was too* deeply engrossed in searching for a 
four-leaf clover, and her sweet voice rang out on the summer 
breeze, while even the robin in the topmost tree seemed to 
join in singing with her. How radiantly innocent and girlish 
she was, while her blue eyes sparkled with unalloyed pleas- 
ure. Her curly golden-brown hair is loosely tied with a pink 
ribbon, and the rebellious curls kept blowing out from be- 
neath the frail bondage; her dimples came and went as she 
smiled at the pleasant scenery and her ultimate success, but 
suddenly she stopped singing and with startled surprise lis- 


4 


tened. Yes, it is someone else whose voice seems an accom- 
paniment to her own. Where can it be ? She looks around in 
all directions, and is about to tell herself it is probably only 
an echo, when she spies a young man, who, having hitched 
his horse to a tree nearby, and with riding whip in hand, is 
fast approaching her, with surprise and interest she stops quite 
still, for it is so seldom she encounters strangers. 

Upon closer observation she sees that he is no ordinary 
person, as she at first supposed, and by no means a farmhand 
or a servant from some of the neighboring farmhouses. 

Lifting his hat from his dark, wavy hair and bowing, he 
inquires: “I wonder if you could inform me where Colonel 
George Desmond resides? I have been told it is somewhere 
around here, but just where I cannot make out; I am rather 
dull at understanding it seems, but perhaps you will be able 
to make it more clear to me.” 

“With pleasure,” she answers unhesitatingly. “You have 
some little distance to go before night-fall, but as I see you 
have a horse nearby, it will take you but a short while. He 
lives a few miles from here, and if you follow the road just 
ahead until it joins another, and turn to the right, after rid- 
ing a short distance I am sure you will be there.” 

'■1 am sorry to have bothered you, and thank you 
very much for your information. I think I can find it with- 
out any difficulty now,” and bidding her farewell, he mounts 
his steed and is soon lost to view. 


She stands a few moments lost in thought, perhaps won- 
dering who the handsome stranger could be, when she was 
interrupted by a shrill voice calling, ‘‘Janette, Janette, why 
don^t you answer me”? 

Recognizing her Aunt Barbara's voice, she hastily climbed 
the stile and found sitting on the last step a little colored boy 
(who was employed by her aunt), looking as though he had 
just awakened from a nap, and rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

“W^y, Miss Netta, Fs been hunting you dis last half hour 
or more. Miss Bawba’s gwine to gib you fits when you gits 
dar. Her's jes been takin de place. You’s got supper to git 
dis night, cause she 'spects comp’ny.” 

Janette laughingly tossed her hat in the air, and skipping 
along soon reached the house, followed by Joe. Sure enough, 
Miss Barbara with arms akimbo stood angrily awaiting her. 

“Well I suppose. Miss, you have been day-dreaming 
again! When will you ever learn common sense? Just see 
what time of day it is, and you have been gone nearly all 
afternoon ; I suppose it is the same old story that you smuggled 
one of those books, and have been reading nonsense all this 
time. I sent Joe for you, and now I suppose I will have to 
go myself for him.” Then in a voice shriller and sterner she 
says, “When I promised your father I would give you a home, 
I little thought you would be such a nuisance from morning 
until night. First it is books and then it is gaddin about wast- 
ing so much time that ought to* be valuable, and you pester 


6 


the life out of me,’" and giving her a push she sent her in 
to prepare supper. 

Joe, in the meantime, had unseen reached Miss Barbara's 
side, and laughingly exclaimed, “Fs done told her so. Miss 
Bawba, and I knows yer awful mad, but you can’t blame dis 
yere black Joe,” and chuckling to himself said, “I’s done 
fooled Miss Bawba dis time sure ’cause I neber hunted for 
her, I jest went to sleep and Lord knows where Fd been if 
Miss Netta hadn’t woke me up. Fs real sorry for Miss Netta, 
’cause her is good to Joe. Dat she am ! Fm gwine to hurry 
up and help her, and sure if dat ole bawl-headed possun 
comes to-night, Fs gwine to hab some fun, you bet,” and he 
hastened to the kitchen to help Janette, who with flushed 
cheeks and eyes dimmed with tears was busily preparing their 
evening meal. Though silent, she keenly felt her aunt’s harsh- 
ness, and despite her efforts to the contrary the tears would 
fall, but they did not escape the notice of Joe, who felt that 
it was partly his fault, and determined to relieve her of her 
burdens as much as possible. 

Meanwhile the handsome stranger, Geoffrey Desmond, 
followed the road she had pointed out to him, and turned to 
the right as she had directed. 

*'Who would have thought one could find such a beautiful 
girl in an out of the way place such as this ? She is evidently 
living in that little farm-house, and she converses well too,” 
he soliloquised. “Whoa there, Dan,” said he to his horse, as 


7 


he came in sight of Desmond Hall, the splendid Home of his 
uncle. 

The butler met him at the door and ushered him into the 
spacious hallway. 

‘Why, Mars’r Geoff, is dat you? What a big feller you 
am to be sure, and if you’ll scuse ole John, he can say hand- 
some too! What a little feller you was de last time I seed 
you, still I’d a known you most anywheres! How long am 
you gwine to stay in ole Maryland?” 

Geoffrey laughingly greeted him. “Oh, you are just giv- 
ing me taffy. I know you. I think I will stay a month 
or so, I’m not sure about it though. It is indeed a comfort 
to be in a pretty, quiet place like this and away from the tur- 
moil of New York. Where is Uncle, in the library?” 

“Yes, sir. He hab not been so well lately, but hab been 
much better since he got ’ceptance of his imitation.” 

Geoffrey could scarcely repress a smile at the ridiculous 
incorrectness of his last word, and was still smiling when he 
reached the library, where he found his uncle ensconced in his 
large, comfortable chair with its cushions piled high, and with 
every evidence of attention such as is given to invalids. 

He tries to arise as Geoffrey entered, but he waves him 
back and comes forward and shakes hands heartily. 

“Have you come at last, Geoffrey? I am indeed glad to 
see you. I cannot express how pleased I am at this visit, 
which I have been looking forward to for so long. It is some- 


8 


what dull here with no one but the servants and housekeeper, 
but I want you to enjoy yourself if it is in my power to have 
you do so. Is this the little boy who used to ride horseback 
with Uncle George? And bless my soul, Geoff, but how hand- 
some you have grown! Your old uncle is indeed proud of 
you.” 

”Oh come now Unc, don’t try to make me conceited; 
however. Uncle, I am glad that you are pleased with me. I 
have wanted quite often to come down here to see you and 
the old place, and thought you must be a lonely chap here by 
yourself, but I could not leave, and when vacation came, 
Father thought I should spend a little time at home ; but dear 
old Uncle, I am here now, and all your rheumatism (for such 
I presume it is) will have to vanish, and that pretty quick.” 

“Indeed it will, Geoff,” said Mr. Desmond fondly em- 
bracing him as though he were still a boy. 

“I think you will be glad to be rid of me though,” added 
Geoffrey with a smile, “before my visit is over, because I 
usually have everything my own way at home, and I’m afraid 
I may forget myself and try to rule here. Here is a letter 
from Father.” 

“That is right, Geoff, I want you to do just as you please 
while here. Do just the same and try to feel as much at home 
as you possibly can,” and he proceeded to open his brother’s 
letter and perused its contents. 


9 


*'Why your father states he has purchased a cloth factory. 
Well, well, Rupert can certainly manage business affairs ad- 
mirably,” and he continued talking of the contents of his 
brother's letter. 

“Geoffrey, I have invited your cousin, Howard Wilmott, 
to spend the summer here with you, and if you desire any of 
your friends, why just drop them a line and fill the house as 
full of visitors as you wish, but I know that you two will enjoy 
yourselves.” 

“I am very glad you have invited him, for I, you know, 
have never met him, although I am most anxious to. He is 
near my own age, too, is he not?' I think I have heard my 
father speak of him.” 

“Let me see. You are twenty-three, are you not?” 

“Not quite twenty-three. I will be twenty-three in Sep- 
tember, and this is only July.” 

“Well, he is somewhat older than you then, but very 
unlike you in appearance, and I think in disposition. He 
is dark (like his father), with right black hair and eyes and 
swarthy skin. His father was an Italian by birth, and that 
was one of your father’s objections to our sister Myra’s mar- 
riage. We almost idolized her, for she was our only sister 
and younger than both of us. Geoffrey, she was indeed a 
beautiful girl, and sometimes I can picture her so vividly as 
she appeared just before her marriage. At her death, she 
admonished me as thei eldest to watch over Howard, and I 


10 


have done this to the best of my ability. I have educated 
him and have adapted him for almost any position, but I do 
not know what he prefers. I should like him to be a lawyer, 
but we will talk about that later. He writes me he is coming 
to spend the summer here.’* 

“Well, what became of his father?” interposed his nep- 
hew. 

“After Myra’s death he went West somewhere, and we 
have never heard of him since, nor has Howard to my knowl- 
edge, but, Geoffrey, let us change the subject. How did you 
manage to find the way from the station? You did not say 
for sure which day you were coming or I should have had 
someone to meet you.” 

“I hired a horse and inquired from different ones until 
finally I reached here. By the way, I met a most beautiful girl 
only a short distance from here, and she directed me the balance 
of the way. Do you know her?” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed his uncle, “how am I to know? 
There may be more than one beautiful girl in this neighbor- 
hood, for I have no idea what sort of a young lady you would 
deem beautiful. However, leaving all jesting aside, I think 
I do know who you mean. It is Miss Barbara Atherton’s 
niece, and a deuced pretty girl she is, Geoff, to be sure, but 
don’t cast sheep’s eyes at her, for if you do Miss Barbara 
will run you off with a broomstick. She does not allow her 
to have beaux. Why, Geoff, it is a confounded outrage the 


11 


way she makes that poor child work; they have a little darkey 
boy there about fourteen years old. He is a son of Mahaley, 
my cook, and he tells us all about it. He is a cunning little 
imp ! I get him to come here in the library sometimes to hear 
him talk and have a good laugh when I feel a little lonesome. 
Well a hint to the wise is sufficient,” and with a merry laugh 
he rings for John. 

“Here comes old John to show you to your room. If 
there is anything you wish for, don’t hesitate to ask for it. 
This, you know, is old bachelor’s hall, and we do not use 
much ceremony here. Supper will be served in about a half 
hour,” and Geoffrey follows John to his room. 

All the pleasure Janette experienced was in her spare 
moments to read a stray book or ramble around the cottage 
and through the woods, and the oft-repeated reprimands from 
her aunt were very wounding to her sensitive nature. Her 
aunt seemed to have no sympathy for her, and lacked the 
natural refinement congenial to her nature. In fact, their 
sentiments widely differed. Never did Barbara Atherton 
think of the difference in their ages, and that the young must 
be allowed a few privileges wherewith to brighten and make 
happy the young girlhood and the budding womanhood of a 
creature naturally tender-hearted and impressionable, never 
did she seek to soothe her when in some childish trouble, 
so Janette never went to her to pour out her troubles in the 


12 


hope for sympathy, but instead she would wander off to the 
woods and there in solitude, away from any watchful eye, 
would sob until the tears no longer flowed, her only confidant 
the birds and bees, and so she came to deem herself entirely 
alone in the world, with no one to care for her, no one to 
whom she could ask sympathy or impart her childish confi- 
dences, and it seemed to her that poor, insignificant little black 
Joe was the only living friend that she possessed. Joe in his 
own peculiar way tried to smooth matters over for her, and 
ofttimes would secretly plan some pleasure for her unknown 
to herself and Barbara Atherton, for he felt that she should 
have everything that he saw the fine ladies have, and in his 
estimation she was pretty enough to be the queen of them all. 
Yet she longed to be understood by her aunt, and wondered 
if there would ever come a day when her affection would no 
longer be withheld from her, when she could rejoice in the 
knowledge that someone cared what became of her. 

This particular evening was soon over, and in the mean- 
time Miss Barbara had bustled around straightening up the 
sitting room and putting on her best white apron and lace cap. 
Having lighted the lamps, she sat awaiting the arrival of her 
visitor. Everything had been straightened up in a wonder- 
fully short time, while here and there a freshly cut bouquet 
breathed its perfume throughout the room, and added their 
brightness to the tables and mantel. 


13 


Janette noticed she was unusually pleasant to-night, al- 
though she had scolded her in the early part of the evening, 
but she did not dare inquire who the visitors might be, and 
she knew that whoever it should be she would not be wel- 
come to remain, nor did she care to help entertain them, for 
this would be a chance to go to her room and finish reading 
one of her favorite books, which doubtless she had read and 
re-read numerous times. 

At last her visitor came, and after conversing awhile, he 
inquired for Miss Janette, who, unknown to anyone but little 
Joe, had crept up to the garret and was busily reading, 

‘‘You will please excuse Janette^s absence, for she is not 
very well, I believe,” said Miss Barbara in explanation. 

They sat in silence a few moments. Clasping and un- 
clasping his hands nervously, and clearing his throat several 
times the parson looks at Miss Barbara smilingly, and then 
looks steadily at the carpet for such a length of time that he 
must surely be familiar with its pattern. At last he ventures 
“Miss Barbara, for some time I have been wishing to have 
a private conversation with you. I hope I shall not be disap- 
pointed in a favorable answer from you, as my whole happi- 
ness is concentrated in this answer.” 

“Oh, Mr. Quigley, this is so sudden,” said Miss Barbara, 
twisting her thumbs in and out and simpering audibly. 

— er — had hoped, Miss Barbara, you had noticed my 
intentions before this.” 


14 


“Well I have considered you one of my best friends for 
some time, and I should have time to consider this momentous 
question. I did not know that you contemplated mafrying 
again soon.” 

“Why, Miss Barbara, it is not good for us to live alone. 
Of course, I miss dear Mary Ann very much,” wiping away 
the tears with a largei bandanna. “My home is becoming a 
wreck, and it is very lonesome at night after my pastoral dut- 
ies are over.” 

“Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Quigley, it would be decidedly 
the best thing for you to marry again soon and have a con- 
genial companion.” 

“I am perfectly delighted with your approval, and have 
no doubt now that I shall get the answer I so greatly desire. 
I will call to-morrow and see what Miss Janette will say.” 

“Oh, Mr. Quigley, don't worry about what Janette will 
say. Whatever I say she will have to abide by, besides you 
know I have been like a mother to her,” rolling her eyes 
heavenward. “She should make no objections to my choice.” 

All this time little black Joe was curled up beneath the 
lounge, where he had crawled unseen to listen to their con- 
versation. He was convulsed with laughter, and his black 
eyes sparkled with mischief. Just at that moment he had 
the greatest desire to sneeze, and with a great effort tried to 
suppress it. He was just about jubiliant over his success 
when again the desire became greater than ever, and placing 


15 


his hand over his mouth to smother it, went, “A choo, a choo, 
a choo.” 

Miss, Barbara drew her skirts about her hurriedly, and 
leaped up exclaiming, ‘"Listen, listen! Oh, Ned dear, what 
was that ?” as she clung to his arm. 

Mr. Quigley looked at her with astonishment and alarm. 
Suddenly it dawned upon him that Joe was again up to mis- 
chief, and walking toward the lounge exclaimed as! he spied 
Joe, “What are you doing there, you black youngster? Play- 
ing eavesdropper are you ?” and turning to Miss Barbara said 
mildly, “Oh I suppose the poor little fellow crawled there 
and went to sleep.” 

“Jest so, jest so, sir,” answered Joe hurriedly, rubbing 
his eyes sleepily, glad to have this excuse and thereby escape 
some of the scolding which was sure to follow. 

She was so angry that she did not reply, and Joe slipped 
noiselessly from the room to escape her observation. She 
restrained herself because she did not wish the parson to see 
her temper, but she felt as if she would like to teach him a 
good lesson by giving him a few blows. 

He presently bade good night, and going toward the tree 
to which he had securely tied his horse, was amazed to find 
it was nowhere to be seen. 

“Joe, Joe, come out here, I want you,” he demanded. 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, I is cornin'.” 

“Joe, where is my horse?” 


16 


''Hoss? Deed, sir, I ain't got no hoss. I don't know 
whar it am. I spects he's got tard waitin, and went home. 
Don't say I's got yer hoss," said Joe rubbing his eyes furi- 
ously. “I is mighty sorry, deed I is, sir, but I can't go long 
wid you for I's got to stay wid Miss Bawba." 

“It is very strange. You are sure you have not seen it, 
Joe? Tell me the truth?" 

“No indeed I ain't seen no hoss ! Spect you'll meet him 
on de way, fer he could not hab gone very fur," answered 
Joe innocently, and the parson greatly chagrined is compelled 
to make his way homeward on foot. 

“Confound dat ole sneeze," Joe mutters to himself as he 
hastens into the house. “Hadn't been fur that I know I'd 
had a good time. Jest wait) till de next time, I ain't gwine 
to sneeze den, I bets." 

Meanwhile Miss Barbara was so delighted at the pro- 
posal to her (as she thought) that she had forgotten all about 
Joe. Greatly excited she hastily retired, as the other inmates 
had already done, thinking how she would surprise Janette 
on the morrow. 

Ere the sun had risen next morning, Janette and Joe 
were aroused to prepare breakfast, while Miss Barbara gave 
extra attention to her toilet, thinking perhaps the parson might 
ride by, and she would be able to receive a morning salutation. 

When Joe came into the kitchen with the wood he was 
convulsed with laughter, and although Janette thought some- 


17 


thing unusual must have happened to cause so many chuckles 
and smiles, still she did not question or appear to notice his 
evident amusement. 

At last Joe could keep silent no longer. “Yah, yah, yah,’" 
he laughs. “Miss Netta, I’s laughed and laughed till my sides 
ache. I was too sleepy to laugh much last night.'’ 

“Why, Joe, what can be the matter? I never saw you in 
a merrier mood than to-day. What has amused you so 
much?” asked Janette with pardonable curiosity. 

“Yah, yah, yah,” laughs Joe again. “Jest wait a bit, till 
I gits done dis laughin. I’s gwine to tell you; all about it,” 
so saying he related what had happened the night previous. 

Janette tried in vain to keep from laughing and tried to 
look severely and frowningly upon him, and when he told 
of the parson having to walk home, she suddenly exclaimed, 
“Look here, Joe, I believe you untied that horse, now own 
up to it! Didn’t you?” 

“Now, Miss Netta, Fs not gwine to say I did.” 

“Now do not try to conceal that from me, Joe. Own up 
to it like a good boy.” 

“Well, Miss Netta, if I ’fesses, you musn’t tell, cas I 
couldn’t help it, ’sides pore boss looked at me so pitiful standin 
dar in de cold.” 

“Why, Joe, it was not cold.” 

“Well, Miss Netta, he was tard. Hoss wanted to lay 
down and rest same as de rest ob us.’* 


18 


Janette laughed heartily at the hastily invented excuse, 
but thought it was her duty to reproach him. 

“You should not have done that. It was not right and 
the parson had such a long walk. Promise me you will not 
get into mischief again.’^ 

“Ps not gwine to do it agin, fer Fs gwine to be rale good. 
Miss Netta. Deed I is!” 

At this moment they heard the rustle of Miss Barbara’s 
dress, and become very quiet. She advanced with a stately 
mien and called Janette, who had received a full account 
from Joe of the night’s proceedings, and was prepared for 
what her aunt was going to relate. 

“Well,” as Janette enters the room, “with all your good 
looks and high notions you have never had a proposal yet. 
Well, well,” crossing her hands complacently, “I shall soon 
have someone to help manage affairs around here. Dear me, 
I am so flurried I can hardly eat any breakfast, and I — ” 
“What in the world are you grinning about,” says she, turn- 
ing angrily to Joe who was always sure to be near Janette 
somewhere. “Get out this instant before I am tempted to 
box your ears. Do you hear?” She sits down and minces 
at her breakfast very daintily, then hastens out to the front 
gate and stands gazing anxiously up and down the road. In 
a few moments sure enough here comes the parson, who after 
bidding her “Good morning” asks, “How is Miss Janette this 
morning?” and after being informed that she was much bet- 


19 


ter, continues, ‘Well I hope to see you ladies this evening, 
and I hope Miss Janette is not unfavorably disposed about our 
conversation of last night/' 

“You must remember that it will not be necessary to 
consult her. I am sure she can have no objection,” answered 
Miss Barbara indignantly. 

“Oh, very well, I am truly glad to hear you say that,” and 
after a few more remarks he bids her adieu and rides rapidly 
away. 

After Janette’s duties are finished for the afternoon, she 
as usual saunters out to the orchard with book in hand, and 
seating herself comfortably under an apple tree, soon is deeply 
engrossed in its contents, when suddenly she hears a well- 
known voice say, “Yes, sir, I knows ’zactly where Miss Netta 
am. Jest you follow me and we will soon be dar.” 

“Is she always to be found out here?” questions a voice 
which Janette is positive she has heard before, although she 
cannot at once see the speaker. 

“She does leastwise she am in de woods somewhars,” is 
Joe’s response. 

Looking around curiously she spies Joe emerging from 
among the trees and not alone, for a young man with an ar- 
tist’s outfit under his arm is rapidly advancing toward her, 
whom she instantly recognizes as the handsome stranger whom 
she had directed to the home of Col. Geo. Desmond the day 
before. 


20 


“How handsome he is,” thought Janette as Geoifrey steps 
forth, cap in hand, and politely bows. 

“I must beg you to pardon me for thus intruding upon 
you again,” said he with a smile, “but wishing to make some 
sketches of the beautiful scenery in these grounds, I called 
hoping to receive permission,” and he handed her his card, 
telling her he was the nephew of Col. George Desmond, of 
Desmond Hall, a near neighbor of hers. 

“I will gladly conduct you to my aunt with whom I live. 
I am sure she will have no objection,” she replied with an 
answering smile, which only made her more fascinating, and 
suiting the action to the word, away she went closely fol- 
lowed by Joe and the handsome stranger, Geoffrey Desmond. 

The first moment Geoffrey gazed into that innocent, 
child-like face and looked into the depths of those glorious 
blue eyes he was greatly fascinated by her beauty and grace, 
and thinking this a good opportunity to become acquainted 
with her, and also improve his painting proclivities, decided 
to ask permission to sketch, knowing at the same time that 
he would be at the mercy of his uncle’s teasing and jests, but 
he cared not for this, he meant to see the beautiful girl who 
had so interested him, and whose interesting face seemed to 
haunt him so continually. 

Reaching the garden, they observe Miss Barbara busily 
engaged in pruning her flowers and selecting the choicest 
blooms for the evening. 


21 


She arises and coolly glances at the stranger, then says, 
'‘Janette, what do you wish?” 

After introducing Geoffrey to her aunt, he asks permis- 
sion to make a few sketches within the precincts of their 
home, and in his most winning manner offers to present her 
with one if they prove successful. 

She is evidently amiably disposed toward her visitor upon 
learning with whom she is speaking, and to the surprise of 
both Janette and Joe she readily gives her consent. Perhaps 
it was his genial smiles that mostly won her, or perhaps it 
was his handsome boyish appearance that had made an impres- 
sion upon that usually cold heart, whatever it was that was 
in his favor, he had received his permission to sketch as often 
as he chose. She had not failed to notice his respectful man- 
ner nor his appearance, and she did not care to refuse one 
whom she knew would be gladly welcomed in the best of 
circles. 

She had judged correctly. He was handsome indeed, 
with a peculiar sort of manly beauty, so noble, so winning, 
so gentle, with his dark curling hair, laughing brown eyes, and 
an athletically developed physique ; taking each feature and 
examining them minutely, one could scarcely call them strictly 
regular, for his chin had most too firm a curve to be called 
perfect, denoting that when once his opinion was given ’twas 
not so easy to change it, but relieving this expression of 
determination the mobile sensitiveness of his lips, the peculiar 


22 


gentleness of his large, dark eyes, combined to impress one 
as belonging to one whose morals and standard of right were 
unusually keen. He had been greatly sought after by society 
already, although he had but recently (in fact, the year pre- 
vious) graduated from college, and returned home to his 
father with great honors. Great talent and preference had 
he for painting, and it was his chief occupation and delight. 
The only son of a wealthy manufacturer, handsome and ac- 
complished, he was considered a ‘‘great catch,” and many 
were the designing mammas who singled him out and tried to 
ensnare him for their own particular daughters, but none were 
successful. 

“Mr. Desmond, I know of a most beautiful nook to sketch. 
Perhaps you would like me to direct you to it,” suggested 
Janette. 

“Would you be so kind? I hope I will not be intruding 
too much upon your kindness, yet I am sure being familiar 
with these parts you will be better able than I to judge which 
would be the best view.” 

“It will certainly be no trouble, but instead a pleasure to 
direct you. If you will follow me, we will not be long in 
reaching there,” continued Janette. 

“Lead the way then for I am ready Miss ” 

“Wallace. Janette Wallace is my name,” she said de- 
murely. 


23 


''Allow me to add a very appropriate name/’ said Geof- 
frey with enthusiasm. ‘1 suppose, Miss Wallace, you have 
quite a jolly time here in summer with your picnics and par- 
ties ? I am quite anxious to attend some of those dances about 
which I have heard a great deal ; of course they are not near 
so formal as the ball-room dances. I suppose you dance?” 

"I fear you know from experience almost as much as I 
do regarding country dances ; I have attended so few parties 
that I cannot give you much information about them,” and 
her voice seemed to become sadder. '1 suppose you, though, 
are very fond of dancing?” 

‘'Well, yes, I am, but like yourself I admit I attend very 
few parties, and I usually am too busy to think about such 
amusement.” 

Thus they conversed as they passed through the orchard 
and came to a babbling brook spanned by a little rustic bridge, 
over which they passed and soon arrived at what proved to 
be their destination. 

It was indeed a picturesque scene, so romantic and wild, 
a place just suitable for lovers and love-making. 

Arranging his materials for convenient use, he silently 
surveys his surroundings, Janette watching him attentively, 
wondering just what he would do next, and she seats herself 
upon a rock nearby to watch the process, but is soon lost in 
thought. 


24 


He does not again address her, but seats himself and 
commences to sketch rapidly as though his very life depended 
upon it, and soon he has Janette’s outline and the rock upon 
the canvas and is preparing to give it the finishing touches, 
when Janette shifts slightly from her former position. 

Fearing that he could not catch the right expression again, 
he calls to her. ‘‘Miss Wallace, please do not move for a 
few moments.” 

She looks up in surprise and confusion, and Geoffrey 
sketches the exact expression he most desired. Working more 
rapidly than formerly, he presently throws down his pencils 
and advances toward her. 

“I thank you for the privilege you have granted me, and 
I hope you will not think me too presumptuous for taking this 
liberty,” and he displays the canvas with the outlines and face 
distinctly upon it. “I hope, Miss Wallace, you are not going 
to scold me, for it can easily be destroyed you see,” and as 
he started to do so she stayed his hand. 

“No, no, you must not unless you wish to displease me. 
All that labor lost? No, if it affords you any pleasure I do 
not object, although I confess this is somewhat of a surprise. 
I had no idea I was under such perfect scrutiny as this sketch 
proves.” 

“You have given me a great deal of pleasure in the last 
few moments but I wish still more. The fact is I want to 
know if you would mind coming here again if the weather 


25 


permits ? I shall be greatly indebted to you as I already con- 
sider myself under obligations.” 

Janette stands thoughtfully contemplating a flower which 
she holds in her hand, and he waits patiently for her answer. 
She is wondering if it would be an impropriety in promising 
or complying with his request, which would give her pleasure 
to escape from the drudgery at home, and she never tired of 
enjoying Nature’s beauties. Aunt Barbara had been unusually 
kind to this stranger; would she object to thus again meet- 
ing and speaking with him? 

At last she vouchsafes an answer. 

“I will come with pleasure if at this time it will suit you. 
Earlier I am quite busy, and I do not suppose Aunt Barbara 
will object if it does not interfere with her domestic affairs, 
but I must now return or I shall have cause to regret it,” 
and he watches her graceful figure until lost to view, then 
slowly wends his way to Desmond Hall. 

Meanwhile Miss Barbara had been busily engaged in 
making a solution for her complexion and arranging her 
toilet for the evening. She unpacked a dress long laid away, 
shook out the folds and pressed it. In the bureau drawer 
she kept a box of ribbons. These she pulled out and trimmed 
the dress with bright touches here and there, putting, in fact, 
everything imaginable in perfect order, for she expected the 
parson over again. She had not as usual watched black Joe 


f 


26 


nor given much thought to Janette, who were busily getting 
their evening tasks completed. 

Soon Joe came running into the kitchen exclaiming, “Oh, 
Miss Netta, here am de possun agin, but he leabed de hoss 
home dis time. Ha, ha! I ’spects he thinks de hoss was 
gwine to leab him again. Ha, ha, ha! he warn’t gwine to 
leab him dis time. Ts not gwine to pay 'tention to any mo 
ob dar nonsense.’" 

“No,” responded Janette, “you must not get into mischief 
again, you are going to be good.” 

“I guess it will be de fust time den. Miss Netta,” said 
Joe with a grin, exposing two rows of white teeth. 

“Now, Joe, do not contemplate any more schemes to rob 
Aunt Barbara of her peace and happiness. Do you hear?” 

“Oh I hears well enough,” he answers, but under his breath 
he continues, “I hears a great deal but dat ain’t got no saying 
dat I minds,” and his eyes twinkle with merriment. 

Janette starts for the sitting room unaware that Joe is 
regarding her slyly and laughingly. She is in search of some 
fancy-work which she had laid aside for spare moments, and 
is now anxious to finish it, but as she spies her Aunt Barbara, 
draws back from the doorway in utter astonishment at the 
spectacle which met her gaze. There sat Barbara Atherton 
decked out in all her splendor, a dress worn twenty years pre- 
vious and ribbons galore of various hues, some so faded with 
age that their color could scarcely be distinguished. Cap dis- 


27 


carded and in its place a neatly tied ribbon, hair curled in 
two long curls at the side, and a large bunch of red geraniums 
in the bodice of her dress completed her toilet. 

The fair belle apparently was not alone, and upon a 
closer glimpse Janette finds that she is evidently entertaining 
our old friend Mr. Quigley, the parson. He, too, was equally 
as ridiculous in appearance as her aunt, in clothes Janette sup- 
poses he has worn in courting his wife probably. At any rate, 
the appearance of the two is so lugubrious, that she would 
fain have laughed outright in her mirth, but she did not dare 
to face the consequences, so she stands with suppressed 
laughter gazing at the couple unseen, feeling somewhat guilty 
at thus watching them and listening to them like any ordinary 
eavesdropper, but the scene was too attractive and ridiculous 
for her acute sense of the comical. She smothers it as best 
she may, however, and tries to- think of some plan whereby 
she can either escape unnoticed or else confront them boldly 
and thus secure the coveted piece of work which had brought 
her thither. 

They were so busily engaged in conversation that they 
failed to notice her presence, and a good plan came to her 
mind to pretend ignorance of their presence and thereby not 
recognize them, so advancing to the middle of the room, she 
drew back in feigned astonishment. 

"'Oh, I beg your pardon! I — I rather expected to find 
my Aunt here, and I was not aware we had company and 


28 


here alone with no one to entertain them. I wonder where 
Aunt Barbara can be?’* 

‘Why, Janette, what do you mean ? Don’t you know me,” 
said Miss Barbara greatly pleased at what she presumed was 
an uncommon way of veiling a compliment intended for her- 
self. 

“Is that you. Aunt Barbara? Why I never saw you look 
so young, and Mr. Quigley I scarcely knew you,” said Janette 
innocently. “This is quite a surprise.” 

Stammering and becoming greatly confused but perfectly 
delighted at her appreciation of his fine and youthful appear- 
ance, he arose and extended his hand in greeting and placed 
a chair for her by his side. He is evidently greatly agitated. 

Miss Barbara jumping up says hastily, “Take this seat, 
Janette, and I will take that,” and she proudly seated herself 
by the parson’s side with a great air of possession. 

Janette would have gladly absented herself, and pleaded 
an excuse of being quite busy in the kitchen, but Mr. Quigley 
asked as a favor that she remain, and insisted in such a man- 
ner that she finally settled down with her usual resignation, 
although she was thinking with regret of the many moments 
wasted that might be employed much more genially to herself. 

If there was one thing that Miss Barbara greatly loved, 
it was her pet, a maltese cat called Tabby. Tabby was sure 
to come in for his full share of all the dainties and sweet- 
meats that his mistress indulged in, in fact, she would deny 


29 


herself that her dear pet might have all that he desired, and no 
one was more aware of this condition of affairs than Joe, for 
many a time he had looked jealously upon that creature as he 
feasted on something that Joe especially coveted. 

Now he sits alone in the chimney comer, and as usual 
on mischief bent, perhaps making up some plan whereby he 
can have full vengeance on Mr. Tabby Cat; at any rate, he 
chuckles cunningly to himself and laughs aloud at a sugges- 
tion that has just recurred to his mind, and springing to his 
feet he takes some red pepper from a castor and put it up 
Tabby's nose. That poor unoffending creature falls a willing 
victim to his well-laid trap, but in his eagerness he was not 
quite so careful in, the distribution of the pepper, for some 
accidentally got spilled upon the stove. Tabby objects to this 
kind of treatment, but is powerless to resist him, for he com- 
mences to sneeze and whine and Joe did too, and the pepper 
on the stove made the scent more terrible. One sneeze after 
another from poor Tabby, and then he rushes around as 
though in a fit, and finally he rushes from the room and 
straight; to Miss Barbara for protection. 

‘‘Oh my poor Tabby,” she cries wildly, and picks up the 
cat to see what can be the matter, and she too begins to sneeze, 
and continues until the tears form into two streams down 
each cheek. By this time the fumes from the kitchen be- 
came intense and was fast filling the room, and they all began 
to sneeze and cough. 


30 


*‘What — a choo! — can be the matter? a choo! a choo!’' 
gasps Miss Barbara. 

“I — a choo! — really — a choo! — this is terrible,” joins in 
Mr. Quigley in a gigantic effort to be heard. 

Miss Barbara attempts to answer but is again strangely 
effected with the sneezing malady, and the two keep up a per- 
fect chorus of ‘^a choos” which was truly laughable. 

Mr. Quigley turns to Janette as though to seek sympathy 
for his wounded feelings, and begins to make love to her, 
thinking her aunt had told her of the conversation of the night 
before, and had no idea that Miss Barbara had attributed the 
proposal to herself. 

He began by saying, ‘‘Miss Janette, I have long loved — 
a choo! — loved you. Do you love — a choo! a choo! — do you 
love me?” 

“Oh dear, what shall I do?” says Miss Barbara helplessly, 
looking at the parson beseechingly. 

“A choo, a choo,” answers the parson. 

Janette is herself too deeply affected by the fumes to try 
to laugh or realize the utter incongruity of the scene, but 
hurriedly springs up and opens the windows, and she at once 
detects the smell of pepper, and she knows that Joe must have 
gotten into mischief again. With this thought in mind, she 
goes in search of him, and sure enough, Joe lay outside in 
the grass rolling with convulsions of laughter. As the full 
meaning dawns upon her, Janette cannot refrain from join- 


31 


ing in too, and now understands what the parson wished to 
say to her, and despite the knowledge that Joe has acted 
shamefully toward their guest, she cannot help feeling thank- 
ful to him for this timely intervention. 

*‘Joe> Joe, what in the world have you been doing? Come 
here,” called she from the kitchen window. “Joe, I want 
you to come here at once,” imperatively. 

"‘Miss Netta, if I tells you, you must not tell Miss Bawba. 

I did not mean to do it, deed. Miss Netta, I didn’t. B’lieb 
me, I jest drapped a little pepper on de stove when I goes to 
fill de castor, but oh Lord, how funny it was to hear dem 
sneeze. Bless me, eben de cat, he done joined in, and how 
he did want to fight me. You jest ought to seen his back; it 
sot up jest like a ball, and his tail! Well it was as big as 
Miss Bawba’s dust brush. Deed, Miss Netta, I’s laughed 
till I can’t, so I’s crying now. Don’t tell on me, deed, Miss 
Netta, I didn’t go fur to do it,” he pleaded. 

Janette bursts out into peals of uncontrollable laughter, 
but calms herself enough to send him off to bed, which Joe 
was secretly glad to do, but his mien is somewhat akin to a 
martyr, and as though he was put to the test of a great self- 
sacrifice. 

Mr. Quigley goes home very much dissatisfied that his 
interview should have ended so unsatisfactorily, but as he 
closed the front gate after him Janette hears him still sneez- 
ing. She is, however, rudely startled by a scream from her 


32 


aunt, and hastening in to see what fresh calamity had befal- 
len her, found her standing in front of a mirror and gazing 
wildly at the reflection shown there. Her face truly pre- 
sented a sorry picture. The rosy cheeks and white solution 
had run in stripes from the effects of sneezing and subsequent 
tears, and she wildly exclaimed, ‘‘Just look! Did I look like 
this when Mr. Quigley was here? A choo — I say — a choo — 
did I?” 

Janette tries to comfort her, and partly succeeds, but Miss 
Barbara is stricken dumb with grief and fear lest the parson 
would no longer care for her, but in a half hour the inmates 
were wrapped in slumber and darkness. 

The next day after her duties were over, not forgetting 
her promise to meet Mr. Desmond at the grotto at three 
o’clock, Janette starts forth with smiling face and light foot- 
steps, and is not long in arriving at their rendezvous. She 
finds he has preceeded her, and with canvas and brushes is 
busily engaged, but as his gaze encounters her, springs up 
with pleased agility, and bidding her “good afternoon,” begs 
her to resume her same seat and posture as on the previous 
day. He does not allow her to be silent, however, but as he 
works jests and converses with her, so that Janette did not 
realize how long she had been sitting there watching him 
with interest as the picture rapidly became completed upon 
the canvas. It was truly a beautiful sketch; a realistic one, 
and one greatly admired by Janette, who had a keen apprecia- 


33 


tion of Nature, and therefore understood the quality of the 
one before her. It would be a number of days before it 
would be entirely finished, but Janette is eagerly looking for- 
ward to its completion. 

“You do not seem to mind being a model for my picture 
in the least, but rather to enjoy it. Do you know I never was 
so interested in a picture before?” says Geoffrey presently. 

“You allow me no time for reflection or to realize that I 
am the model,” answers Janette. “This is the first picture of 
myself that has ever been taken, and I am vain enough to be 
very pleased, but I fear you are trying to flatter it too much. 
I would much rather see the little imperfections that are 
natural.” 

“Oh, I protest that I am not flattering you whatever else 
I am doing. The imperfections that you speak about are the 
faults of the artist, not natural ones by any means. I am 
glad that you do not hesitate to tell me of it, however, for I 
will try to make amends.” 

“Now you know I did not mean that! You are making 
the most beautiful picture I have' ever seen, and I shall not 
allow you to find fault with yourself in this manner. I admit 
that I am not any connoisseur or anything of that sort, yet 
I must tell you that in my estimation your picture is becoming 
perfect.” 

“That you mean that, I can see by your serenity, and I 
cannot thank you enough for your good opinion. It has more 


34 


value to me than a great critic’s, for the simple reason that I 
see you really appreciate my small efforts,” said he warmly. 

“Do you ever get tired of painting?” asks she naively, 
“but then I suppose you do not, you are used to it and like 
your work.” 

“I never get tired of painting some pictures,” answers he 
earnestly. 

“I suppose you mean your brother’s, sister’s or possibly 
your ” 

“I mean I do not think I shall ever get tired of painting 
this one. As for brothers or sisters, well, there is no one 
nearer or dearer than my father, and I cannot say that I have 
ever taken his likeness.” He sits silently regarding her for 
a few moments thoughtfully, and seems about to speak but 
controls himself immediately. However, he does not remove 
his gaze, and Janette finds herself very much embarrassed and 
soon finds he is looking at her somewhat disapprovingly, for 
she has changed her posture and he cannot continue his work. 

“There, I had no intention of moving,” she said apolo- 
getically, “I will try to remember a little better your instruc- 
tions in the future.” 

Thereafter she lapses into silence unbroken for several 
moments. Suddenly he looks up and says, “I suppose there 
are many visitors here in the summer?” 

She does not immediately answer him, and he fears he 
has offended her, but her bright smile reassures him. 


35 


'‘You have not answered my question/' he gently reminds 

her. 

“Perhaps you could supply that information better than 
I. I know of no one except yourself that I might term a 
visitor." 

“Then I presume it is unusually quiet here, is it not? 
Perhaps it does not seem quiet for you though. I suppose 
you have many friends through the country here. It is a 
blessing to have good, true friends, but it seems that they 
are hard to find ; one never really knows who are their friends 
until one needs them." 

“Are there any true friends? I often wonder if there 
really are. If so, I cannot say that I am blessed with any, 
unless the devotion of a little negro could be considered a 
friend." 

She had been talking earnestly at first, but now she is 
laughing. 

“You may consider yourself fortunate, then, for I cannot 
boast the devotion of even a little negro," he says smilingly. 
“Do you not pity one so lonely, so friendless?" 

He says this jestingly, but as Janette encounters those 
serious brown eyes, she cannot help feeling puzzled. 

“I suppose that little negro boy, Joe, is the devoted slave 
you mention? Well he deserves a great deal of credit, and 
I must congratulate you for having so apt and cunning a one. 


36 


He seems to be a mischievous, jolly, little soul, and I do not 
blame him for being so devoted/^ 

“Now I see you are making fun! I think I should be 
greatly offended with you/* 

“Oh, but we disagree there, then. I am in earnest, for 
although Joe is little he is of a great deal of consequence after 
all. Now admit. Miss Wallace, he is a good little champion 
to have, even though he be but a little negro boy. Earnestly 
speaking, I believe him to be a good-hearted little fellow, and 
he tells me there is no one like his Miss — Netta, I believe 
he calls you.*’ 

“Joe is a good boy, but for mischief I think he has no 
equal,** and she tells of a few of his pranks which start Geof- 
frey to laughing uproariously. 

“I beg your pardon,** he says at last. “He is truly an odd 
little character.** 

Thus passed many pleasant days, each one containing a 
promise to return on the morrow in order to finish that pic- 
ture. She went to the grotto every day, and was each day 
surprised at its rapid progress. She had now been sitting 
for it for a week, and during this time she had not only 
become interested in the picture, but in the artist himself. As 
for Geoffrey, he was learning to love the girlish figure and 
golden-brown head. 

To-day as she lightly trips over the little bridge, Geof- 
frey comes to meet her. “I have finished it to-day, and would 


37 


like you| to give me your opinion of it, Miss Janette. You 
will allow me to call you that, will you not ?” says he with an 
unassumed seriousness and anxiety as he gazes into her blue 
eyes. 

''Yes, if you wish,” she says simply. "You say that the 
picture is finished? Oh, I am so anxious to see it.” 

"Well you certainly shall, and I want your candid opin- 
ion.” 

They had now reached the easel and the picture, and Geof- 
frey holds it up eagerly for Janette’s inspection. 

"Oh — how beautiful !” exclaimed she with amazement and 
rapture. "It is indeed perfect, Mr. Desmond,” and she gazes 
as if spell-bound. 

The blue heavens above, with white fleecy clouds floating 
across the horizon, old trees gnarled and mossy with wild 
vines intertwining, and rough stone hewn by nature’s hand, 
were clearly portrayed, but the central attraction, a lone figure 
of a maiden clothed with simplicity, with no ornaments but 
the wild flowers, was perched upon that rock, gazing thought- 
fully and earnestly into the babbling brooklet beneath, was 
indeed expressive and lovely. The face seemed to portray 
so clearly a sad, sweet expression, so winning, so pathetic, and 
seemed to speak the word "reflection.” At the base of the 
rock flowed a stream whose pebbly bed and clear water re- 
flected the flowers and ferns which grew upon its mossy banks. 


38 


One could never tire of gazing upon a scene like this, a master- 
piece it surely was. 

Geoffrey is delighted with her appreciation, and quietly 
awaits her opinion. 

“But I fear you have greatly flattered me. Now con- 
fess, Mr. Desmond/^ said Janette at length mischievously. 

“No, Miss Janette, I really have not and to prove it, look 
for yourself, and he draws from his pocket a little hand 
mirror and presents it to her. “Now compare and see if you 
see any difference.’^ 

She looks from the picture to her own reflection and vice 
versa before she expresses any opinion. 

“The only difference, Mr. Desmond, is in the fact that it 
seems to express a peculiar sadness that I never knew was in 
my countenance,” she answers slowly. 

“Yet that was the expression I have seen upon your face 
a number of times, and have wondered what could be the 
cause that brought it there. Is there any other fault that you 
notice ?” 

“The more I look at myself in this glass and compare 
my features with that in the picture, the more I seem to real- 
ize that you were right. My face does express a sadness that 
I never noticed before, and now that you have pointed out the 
fact I see that you are right. I wonder why I never noticed 
it before? I have no fault to find with that picture, Mr. 
Desmond; to me it is a perfect representation of myself, 


39 


although I really think it flatters, that is,” hastily, “it seems 
to accentuate certain expressions.” 

“That is what I saw expressed in your face as I painted 
it, but tell me is there anything in your bright young life that 
should cause that sadness in the eyes? Have you ever known 
any real trouble?” 

“My only trouble is that I am entirely alone in the world 
except for my aunt, if that could be termed trouble,” laugh- 
ingly answers Janette. “Perhaps that expression is only a 
premonition of coming trouble.” 

“Then if my good wishes will avail, I hope that you will 
never know one day's unhappiness, that your life will be sun- 
shine and roses without any thorns.” 

Her only answer is a blush followed by an embarrassed 
silence, which she finally breaks by saying, “May I ask what 
you intend doing with the picture ?” 

“For the present I will leave it with my uncle, but do 
not think because I have it in my possession, that I shall con- 
sider it entirely my own. You also have a share in this pic- 
ture.” 

“And now that you have finished it, I suppose I shall 
never see you again,” she said mournfully. “You will go 
away and forget that you ever knew such a person as myself. 
Is not that so?” 

“No,’' he says quietly. 

“But I believe you will,” she persists. 


40 


^‘I shall be at my uncle's for several months yet, and I 
hope that during that time this will not be the only one. I 
should like to paint others. You know of plenty more pretty 
scenes, do you not? I see that you truly appreciate Nature 
and all its beauties.” 

*'Oh, yes, I know of several more places which I think 
equally as pretty, and will gladly show them to you. I wish 
I could paint like you, for I think I should never tire of it.” 

“Will you allow me to teach you ? It is no trouble to me, 
and I should be only too glad to be of service 'to you.” 

Janette looks up with surprise and pleasure, which Geof- 
frey perceives, but almost immediately the smile disappears 
and she answers hesitatingly, “Thank you, but I cannot accept 
your kind offer. It would take up too much of your time 
and mine, too, besides Aunt Barbara would be likely to object, 
and say I was getting foolish fancies into my head. I would 
really like to learn, though.” 

“If you really wish to learn as you say, I will try earnestly 
to gain your aunt’s permission, so hesitate no longer. Could 
I see her now?” inquired Geoffrey eagerly. 

Janette is so happy at the thought of learning to paint, 
and she looks up shyly into his face. 

“Thank you so much,” and gratitude beams in her beauti- 
ful flower-like face. “I have wished often that I could paint 
these lovely scenes, and now I can scarcely realize I am 


41 


going* to learn. However, Aunt is busy now, and I do not 
think you can see her to-day.” 

'Then I will come over and ask her when she is not so 
busily engaged if you do not object,” he answers with a 
pleased smile. 

"Oh, no, I have no reason to care — that is, I mean I 
shall not object, but I really must be going now. Have you 
the time?” 

Geoffrey pulls forth a handsome watch. It was 4.30, and 
Janette looks at him aghast. 

"Oh, I had no idea it was so late. I should have gone a 
half hour ago.” 

"I am sorry that I have kept you so much over time, 
but your company was so pleasant. Your aunt will not scold 
you, will she?” 

"Not if I hurry. Good-bye, or farewell rather, Mr. Des- 
mond,” and with a bright smile away she goes skipping lightly 
along. She was in luck to-day, for she received no scolding 
from her aunt, for that estimable lady was nowhere to be 
seen. "Where can she be?” asked she of Joe. 

"She am getting ready to be spliced or married as you 
folks call it I spects,” answered he with a laugh and wink. 

"Oh, nonsense, Joe,” she answers, nevertheless her sil- 
very laughter rang out clearly as she ascended the stairs. 
Sure enough, there sat her aunt sewing what afterward proved 
to be her wedding garments. 


42 


^‘Oh, are you sewing?” asks Jarnette mildly. “I am 
sorry I have intruded, but came to see what you wished me 
to do.” 

“Oh, dear me, I am so flurried and flustered that I will 
just leave everything to you for this evening. It takes up 
all my time now to arrange my toilet, for you know Mr. 
Quigley is so very observant. Janette, my dear child, do you 
know where my curling iron is?” 

“No, Aunt, I don't know anything about it, but I am sure 
your hair is quite naturally curly. Is it not? Why here it 
is now,” and she handed it over to her aunt, and then slowly 
descended the stairs to attend to the household affairs. 

Geoffrey bounded up the steps almost two at one time, so 
eager was he to show the completed picture to his uncle. 

“What have you there, my boy?” he inquires quizzically. 

“Oh, just a little surprise in the shape of a picture. Now 
I want your candid opinion. Is not this a true likeness of 
someone you have seen?” 

“Upon my word! How beautiful!” he exclaims as he 
catches a glimpse of it. Then suddenly he says, “Well, by 
thunder! How in the world did you ever get such a good 
likeness of her? Did you brave aunt, broomsticks, cats and 
everything? I see, I see you have taken the good advice I 
gave you when you first arrived. Explain yourself, sir ! How 
did you manage to pacify Miss Barbara? You must have 


43 


mesmerized her for a fact, and, Geoff, that picture is worth 
money! I had no idea you were such an artist.” 

“Well it shall adorn your walls, for I never intend part- 
ing with it.” 

“I think I understand, my boy,” said his uncle with a 
laugh. “It is wonderful what can be accomplished when once 
determined, for should you have failed, you would not have 
been the first, from all accounts I hear. I suppose then this 
will be hung in your room?” 

“No, no. Uncle! I should not care to keep it up there 
all to myself,” he said, with rising color. 

“Just as you please, my boy. By the way, I have just 
received a letter from Howard, your cousin, and he expects 
to be here within a few days. The exact time he cannot 
determine, but he judges it will be about that time.” 

“I am very glad.” He remained silent for a while then 
resumes, “I had no idea it would be so soon.” 

“Ha, ha,” laughed his uncle, “I see how the land lies. 
I see your mind is taken up with something else, but listen, 
Geoff! I have some other news to interest you. I heard 
to-day from good authority that we are soon to have one of 
our Sunday School picnics. I certainly do enjoy attending 
them; they each try to excel one another in their excellent 
cakes and various dainties. It is an enjoyable time for the 
old as well as the young.” 


44 


'That will be very nice, I am sure,” he answers, but his 
uncle sees that he is not quite so enthusiastic as a few days 
ago about these same country picnics. 

"At that time Miss Barbara tries her best to beat them 
all in making her delicacies. Ha, ha! I see you are more 
interested. You are like an open book, Geoff, easily read. 
Wouldn’t you like to go? I am sure you will enjoy it, and 
see plenty of pretty country lassies, too. I have to depend 
on Mahaley to get my hamper filled, but she has learned to 
keep up pretty well with the rest of them in her culinary arts, 
and enjoys going as well as the rest of us.” 

"Indeed I should like it, I have never been to a country 
picnic, but — well I suppose — of course she will not — ” 

"Don’t you be so sure about that. She may/* 

"When do you think it will come off?” 

"The definite time will be announced in church next Sun- 
day. Come, let us have a game of euchre,” and soon they 
become engrossed in the game, and the evening passes pleas- 
antly. 

The Sabbath dawned a bright and beautiful morn, and 
Geoffrey with happy thoughts and a gay morning greeting 
seats himself at his accustomed place at the breakfast table. 

"How would you like going with me to church this 
morning, Geoffrey?” he asked at length. 

"I was just waiting for an invitation. I should like to 
go, of course. You know I am interested in that forthcoming 


45 


picnic. I was just wondering how I would pass the time 
away alone here this morning.” 

'‘You want me to believe you would be lonely without 
your old uncle, do you? Well, well, you are foxy!” 

After breakfast he joins his uncle on the veranda, and 
with leisurely footsteps they start off. 

The grass lay covered with dew, and they had to follow 
the path carefully to avoid wetting their shoes. The birds 
chirped merrily, and now and then the sad cry of a whippoor- 
will or katydid broke the silence of the summer morning. 

“Uncle George, it seems that to be alive a day like 
this is indeed a delight,” observes Geoffrey thoughtfully. 
“How different the scenery is here in Maryland from any I 
ever came across !” 

At this moment they came in sight of the old church. It 
was indeed an old structure with a grave-yard attached, so 
solemn and gloomy. The white stones were dotted here and 
there, while trees were swaying their branches among the 
silent sleepers ; the shrubbery and flowers sadly needed atten- 
tion, for rank weeds and briars had crept up profusely among 
them and now covered the graves and walks, almost screening 
them from view. The church had recently been repaired 
within. New seats replaced the old high-backed ones, and 
fresh paper now decorated its time stained walls. The win- 
dows are open, and the gentle breeze slightly sways the shades. 
It looked cool and inviting, and so thought Geoffrey as he 


46 


entered. Quite a large congregation was assembled, much 
to his surprise, and he eagerly scanned the crowd in the hope 
of seeing Janette. Soon he was rewarded, for in came Miss 
Barbara, followed by Janette, and they took seats not far 
from where he and his uncle were sitting. Only once did she 
look in his direction, and as their eyes met a vivid blush 
mounts to her brow, and with a drooping of eyelids she be- 
came apparently engrossed in Mr. Quigley’s discourse. 

Col. Desmond’s surmise prove correct, and the picnic 
was announced to take place the next Thursday. As soon 
as the congregation was dismissed, Geoffrey said to the Colonel 
in an undertone, ‘‘Do you want to do a favor for me. Uncle? 
Suppose we walk home with Miss Barbara and her niece? It 
is a cool walk in that direction, and is not out of our way.” 

With a good-natured smile his uncle assents, and to the 
surprise of the othei^ villagers the Colonel steps up to Miss 
Barbara, and wishing her a pleasant “good morning,” says, 
“Miss Barbara, may I have the pleasure of escorting you 
home ?” It is needless to say that she was delighted and read- 
ily gave permission, for besides being particularly pleased that 
he should desire to accompany her, she had in mind that it 
would be quite a good thing now that she had an oppor- 
tunity to make the parson jealous, and perhaps he was, but not 
of her, poor soul! 

In the meantime Geoffrey had saluted Janette, and they 
now walked side by side and were soon engrossed in an ani- 


47 


mated conversation. In the midst of it he eagerly inquires, 
“Do you expect to attend the picnic?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed, I would not miss it for a great deal. 
Aunt has been unusually good-natured for the past week and 
she has given me permission.” 

“Then may I have the pleasure of escorting you? I am 
going, too.” 

“Thank you, but I havq a class at Sunday School, and 
will have to go with my scholars in the large wagon drawn 
by four horses, and with the other classes and teachers, but I 
shall be glad to meet with you there and introduce you to 
some of my friends and acquaintances.” 

Geoffrey looks disappointed, but brightened a little as she 
finished speaking. 

“I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing a cousin 
of mine to you. A young man near my age, who is to arrive 
in a few days, and perhaps in time to attend the picnic.” 

They were so interested in their conversation that he 
was sorry when they arrived at the cottage gate, and there he 
found his uncle awaiting him, so bidding adieu to his fair 
companion, they start homeward. 

The next morning Geoffrey goes to Miss Barbara’s to 
see Janette, and asks permission of her aunt to let him teach 
her to paint. Finding no one but Joe around he asks, “Where 
is Miss Janette? Can I see her?” 

“Guess so,” answers Joe leading the way. 


48 


As they pass the kitchen window Geoffrey hears someone 
sweetly singing, and looking up catches a glimpse of Janette’s 
fair face. 

‘'Here is Miss Netta. In de kitchen makin goodies for 
de picnic I spects,” said Joe, his eyes kindling with anticipa- 
tion of the coming event. 

“Yes, but I think you had better go in and inform her 
that someone wishes to see her.” 

“Yes, sir. I might a known dat sure. Wait right dar, 
and Ts comin back in a minute,” and in went Joe grinning 
as usual. 

“Say, Miss Netta, someone wants to see you. You knows 
who it am. Dat young gent’man.” 

“Why, Joe, you are not bringing anyone back here? Who 
is it?” asked Janette with surprise and perplexity as to what 
she should do, for she was making bread and cakes and could 
not take her hands from the dough. 

“Dat young man what comes to paint,” went on Joe in 
explanation. “Shall I bring him here. Miss Netta? I don’t 
know where Miss Bawba went.” 

Janette still stands more perplexed than ever, a tiny 
wrinkle appearing upon her forehead. What shall she do? 
She does not stir for several moments. 

“Joe you” — here she pauses, for at this moment Geoffrey 
crosses the threshold. 


49 


There stood Janette with her sleeves rolled up above her 
elbows and her hands in the dough, displaying the dimples 
in her plump white arms, to which some of the dough per- 
sistently clings. 

As she approaches she flushes crimson and looks greatly 
embarrassed, but Geoffrey hastily says, “I beg your pardon 
most humbly for intruding upon you in this manner, but I 
thought Joe had entirely forgotten to tell you I was here, so 
on seeing you, I came right in, but I am sorry if I have dis- 
pleased you.’^ 

Janette stammers forth her greeting, and for a few mo- 
ments stands in silence broken by Joe's noisy departure. 

‘T hope you are not angry, Miss Janette ?" 

“No — but Joe — well he should have taken you into the 
sitting-room. However, please be seated and make yourself 
as comfortable as the circumstances will permit, for you see 
what a predicament I am in,” and a smile appears on her 
mobile face, displaying her even little pearly teeth and com- 
pletely clearing away the embarrassment between them. She 
keeps on kneading the dough, and Geoffrey watches her with 
admiration. “What a perfect little creature she is,” thought 
he as the dimples in her pretty arms appear and disappear. 

“You see. Miss Janette,” he says in an explanatory tone, 
“I came over to ask your aunt’s permission regarding the 
painting lessons, but thought I had better see you first in case 
you should have changed your mind, not knowing whether 


50 


you were changeable or not, but I hope to find you still wish 
to learn.’" 

‘‘Oh, no, I have not changed my mind in the least, but the 
picnic now engrosses all of my time, for it is to be an elaborate 
affair, as it only happens once a year. I really believe if 
anyone should excel Aunt Barbara in her dainties for that 
occasion, she would be so worried that it would end in fre- 
quent visits from the doctor,” she responded roguishly. 

All the while she was conversing Geoffrey could not help 
noticing how scrupulously clean the kitchen was, and the little 
housekeeper herself with her dainty white cap and apron was 
the picture of neatness, and thinking the while what a charm- 
ing prize she would be for any man. 

A shadow darkened the doorway, and looking up they 
encounter the stern, forbidding appearance of Miss Barbara, 
who exclaimed with great indignation, “Well, well, is it pos- 
sible that my kitchen has become a reception room?” with a 
toss of her head and her glances directed at Janette. “I did 
give you credit for a little more sense than this.” 

Before she has time to make a reply Geoffrey arose, and 
bowing politely says, “Allow me. Miss Barbara the privilege 
of explaining the occurrence. I am entirely to blame, not 
your niece. My visit was partly to you this morning, and as 
Miss Janette was busily engaged, I took the liberty of walk- 
ing in. I know that I was entirely too presumptuous, but I 


51 


want you to pardon me, and I hope I have not given any 
offense.” 

Miss Barbara is evidently dumbfounded at so much bold- 
ness, and does not attempt to speak, but looks at him rather 
sternly, which Geoffrey does not appear to notice in the least. 

“Miss Janette is much pleased with my efforts as an 
artist, and would like to learn. Now I have volunteered 
teaching her, of course on condition that I have your consent, 
which I am willing to say you do not intend to withhold, for 
I believe you will be generous enough to grant a wish that 
will be of benefit to your amiable niece. Miss Janette,” he 
continues. 

While Geoffrey had been speaking Miss Barbara’s face 
had relaxed its former rigid lines, and Janette had silently 
disappeared. Now, despite her efforts to the contrary, Miss 
Barbara smiles at his brusque but good-natured manner, and 
finds that she is not near so angry as had been her first inten- 
tion upon finding him there. 

“Will you not allow yourself to be persuaded ?” he asks. 

She not only gave permission to the painting lessons, but 
invited him into the sitting-room, and even went so far as to 
invite him to dinner. 

“I am sorry I cannot stay long enough to be able to accept 
your kind invitation, but you see. Miss Barbara, Uncle George 
will be expecting me at the Hall, but I shall most certainly 
avail myself the privilege of remaining the next time, so I 


52 


advise you to beware how you extend invitations to me in 
the future/’ and strangely enough Miss Barbara has forgot- 
ten her ill-temper and tries to make herself agreeable. 

He follows her into the sitting-room, and it is not long 
before Janette enters in her cool summer attire of white, 
minus of cap or apron, and Geoffrey becomes more in love 
with her every moment. 

“Mr. Desmond,” inquires Miss Barbara, “are you going 
to our picnic next Thursday? I believe your uncle is usually 
in attendance, and I suppose you intend accompanying him?” 

“I certainly will,” answers he promptly. “Uncle George 
has given me such a thorough description of it, that I would 
not miss it for a great deal. He, too, is looking forward to 
the occasion. Do they have any dancing? He failed to tell 
me that.” 

Throwing up her hands deprecatingly and in horror, she 
answers, “Oh, no! Dancing did you say? It is a Sunday 
School picnic, and our parson will be there.” 

“Oh, indeed, I am sure I did not know,” he replies suavely. 

Janette commences to smile, and as Geoffrey looks up at 
her amusedly, she blushes and inclines her head, and he in- 
stantly surmising it must be a lover of hers, is smitten with 
a dart of jealousy, and realizes more than ever that he is 
indeed in love. 

As Geoffrey wends his way homeward, he hears someone 
whistling and singing, and as he reaches the stile, there he 


53 


spies Joe lounging as usual, the sun streaming down over 
his black shiny face, evidently the whistler. 

‘‘Well, boy, aren't you afraid of getting freckles laying 
there in the hot sunshine like that ?” he asks. 

“What's dat?" 

“Aren't you afraid of getting freckled?" he repeats in 
mock seriousness. 

“Oh, go way ! Freckles indeed," says Joe contemptuously. 
“Who ebber did see a nigger what got freckled? Ha, ha! 
What you done take me fur?" and Joe laughs heartily. 

“Why does not a little negro boy ever get freckles or sun 
bum?" asks Geoffrey innocently. 

“Oh, go way! Quit yer foolin. You think I dunno 
nothin, don't yer? Bar's is where you fools yourself. Any- 
way I b'liebs you is mighty sweet on Miss Netta. I's jest 
been settin waitin till you comes back, cause I wants ter ax 
you somethin." 

“You are a cunning one! Well, what is it, Joe?" asks 
he mildly. 

“Is you one of Miss Bawba's beaus, too, cas if you am, de 
possun 'll git after you," and he shakes his head dubiously; 
thereupon he commences to relate the adventures of a few 
nights past. 

Geoffrey laughs immoderately, and tossing him a quarter, 
gave him to understand the parson need not be in any dread 
of himself, and he is secretly rejoiced at the knowledge that 


54 


he has gained so easily. Presently as he is but a short dis- 
tance away, he hears Joe exclaim, ‘‘Well dis is easy! Ps in 
luck dis time! I knowed already he don’t want Miss Bawba 
nohow. Ha, ha, ha! Ain’t foolin dis yere feller if he am 
black. I’s gwine ter hab a good time offen dis, sure.” 

Geoffrey laughs heartily, and thinks inwardly, “That is 
a smart little youngster, certain. He made good use of his 
information.” 

He was awakened on the following Thursday earlier than 
usual, and throwing back the shutters to see what kind of a 
day it was, saw the sun just rising, and a slanting ray trying 
to peep into his room. An unusual commotion and bustle 
could be heard downstairs, and above all the din can be heard 
John’s and Mahaley’s voices. ’Tis but a few moments later 
that his uncle calls him and tells him to get ready for break- 
fast, as they intend to go early to the picnic grounds. 

At about nine o’clock two large country wagons and 
horses with their jingling of bells and gay-colored flags drew 
up in front of the house. One wagon was filled with the 
people, and the other with hampers and several colored folk 
in attendance. Old Mahaley scrambled into this one with 
her numerous baskets and paraphernalia. A happier crowd 
Geoffrey had never witnessed, and seated in their midst was 
Janette, who smiled as she bade him “good morning.” They 
drove off amid the clanging of bells, barking of dogs and the 
laughter of the children. Col. Desmond ordered his horse put 


55 


to the carriage, and Geoffrey and he jump in, and, driven by 
old John, follow in the procession. 

They are not long in arriving at their destination, a ro- 
mantic spot in the woods, where in the midst of a large clear- 
ing a rude platform had been erected and a long table built 
of several lengths of rough boards stood upon it, which was 
covered with a snowy cloth. Standing around with white 
aprons were the ladies to serve at the table, and conspicuous 
in the crowd Geoffrey recognizes Miss Barbara. A short 
distance from the table at one end are grouped the colored 
waiters with their bright red bandanna kerchiefs tied on their 
hair and white handkerchiefs crossed over their shoulders. 
While some were busily making lemonade, others were heap- 
ing the table with delicacies. 

The Sunday School teachers were forming their scholars 
for singing and recitations, and it was truly a promiscuous 
crowd of babbling voices. 

While the Colonel was perfectly at home among them, 
Geoffrey at first felt awkward and out of place in this crowd, 
but was not long left to his own, devices, for after a short 
while the Colonel introduces him to his many friends and 
acquaintances, among them two beautiful blondes, heiresses 
to a large estate not many miles from Desmond Hall, who 
are so versatile and entertaining that Geoffrey marvels at 
finding them here, yet he is not fickle, for he never forgets 
one face that is becoming so dear to him, no one could hope 


56 


to find favor in his eyes like Janette. He soon became much 
interested in their entertainment, and especially when he was 
thrown in contact with Janette. 

After the speeches were made by the scholars and singing 
by the whole Sunday School, some good advice was given by 
the pastors, and the dinner was announced by the loud ring- 
ing of a bell. Then there was a great scampering of the chil- 
dren, and they were served first. Geoffrey watches Janette, 
who is smiling upon the little ones with great benevolence as 
she helps them generously to the dainties spread out before 
them; when they have finished, they scamper away to the 
woods to play their games and gather flowers. 

Geoffrey soon finds himself surrounded by a bevy of 
young ladies and gentlemen, who endeavor in every way pos- 
sible to make him feel as one of them, and perfectly welcome, 
and they all repair to the sumptuous table. Fortunately for 
him Janette is offered a place by his side, while right opposite 
is his uncle. Miss Barbara and Mr. Quigley, the parson. The 
pleasant air and hum of voices gives Geoffrey a keen appe- 
tite, and he does justice to the repast, and even after years, 
the scene of the picnic recurs to his memory. 

“Well, how do you like our country picnics?” asks Janette. 
“We have so little in the way of amusements here that this 
is looked forward to as the acme of all our joys.” 

“You may well look forward to them. I have never en- 
joyed myself more than to-day. And you? You seem to be 


57 


very happy, but I wonder if you would prefer someone else 
to be here with you? Tell me,” he says in an undertone. 

‘'Why do you ask such odd questions? I certainly do 
not care to have anyone occupy your place just now. Why 
should I?” 

“You make me very happy when you admit this,” he 
answers gravely. Presently he addresses her again. “This 
is all right in summer, but how do you amuse yourselves in 
winter?” 

“Oh we have quilting parties, corn husking and sleigh 
rides, but should these amusements be deprived, I never get 
lonely, for I enjoy reading, and then you know I told you — 
I — help Aunt Barbara a great deal, and that does not leaye 
so much time unoccupied,” she answers hesitatingly. 

“I know what a busy little bee you are sometimes,” he 
says. “Will you take a stroll in the woods?” he asks as they 
arise from the table. Janette assents, and they stroll off, 
leaving the crowd of merrymakers behind them. 

“Tell me, Mr. Desmond, how you enjoy yourself in the 
city,” says Janette as though they had just finished speaking, 
and in continuation to their conversation. “I long to see 
more of the world; I have never been away from this village 
except for a drive of a few miles.” 

“Do you think you would like to live in the city?” and 
he gazes eagerly but earnestly into her blue eyes. 

“I believe I would in winter.” 


58 


/ 

‘'Well, where I live it is one round of gaiety and especially 
in winter. We have balls, attend theaters, give dinners or 
teas and drive in the parks, and in fact, numerous other 
amusements that would not be familiar to you.” 

“I should like to attend balls and drive in the parks some- 
times, but I would not wish to be too much in society. Com- 
fortable home life is the best.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so, and I wish there were 
many more ladies with opinions like yourself.” 

At this moment she stops to gather some wild flowers, 
and he watches her as she stoops over them. 

“She is qualified to grace the best of society, but I prefer 
the comfortable home life of which she speaks,” thought 
Geoffrey contentedly. 

She will not allow him to gather her flowers for her, but 
continues in her search until she has her arms quite laden with 
the dainty blossoms, and Geoffrey suggests resting awhile ; so, 
seating herself on the trunk of a fallen tree and busying her- 
self with straightening the flowers into bouquets, she gazes 
thoughtfully and earnestly at her companion, entirely unaware 
that he is studying each feature minutely. 

“You seem unusually reserved to-day,” he says at last. 

She looks confused and startled. 

“Reserved?” she asks with a low laugh and blush. “I 
cannot tell you the reason then. What do you want me to 
say?” 


59 


‘‘More than you could ever imagine; to-day I want you 
to say that you will let me be your friend. Will you?” he 
pleads. 

“Oh, but I have known you such a short while, and then 
you would only forget me when you go away.” 

“Two weeks you have known me,” he remonstrates, “and 
in that time I have seen you quite frequently, have I not?” 

“Yes ; but, after all, you are only a stranger; .that is — no, 
you are certainly not that, but — well, I may promise you that 
some day,” she says evasively. 

He does not urge nor seek to persuade, but his gaze is 
full of pleading and questioning. 

“Your flowers are quite pretty,” he remarks, by way of 
changing the subject. 

“Oh, yes; and I am so fond of them. I do not see so 
many as are generally here at this time of the year, though.” 

“Perhaps you could spare me a few ?” 

“Certainly.” And she selects for him a little bunch of 
the bluest forget-me-nots and some wild roses. 

This greatly pleases him, as is shown by his countenance. 

“These shall be valuable to me, more than you know, and 
they are beautiful,” he says, complacently adjusting them in 
his buttonhole, particularly careful that none shall be lost, 
though they be quite tiny. 

“When shall we begin our lessons?” he resumes, after 
several minutes of silence. “Would it suit for me to come 


«0 

to-morrow afternoon ?’' And his voice has a ring of entreaty. 

have an extra supply of materials, and will bring some over 
with me.” 

“I think I can spare an hour every day if the weather 
permits.” 

“There is no need of missing one even then, for I could 
come to the house.” 

“After a few lessons you will not care to come any more, 
for you will find that you have such a dull scholar ; I fear you 
will get discouraged.” 

“Allow me, please, to judge of that. Miss Janette.” 

They were interrupted by an exclamation from a friend 
of Janette who came in search of her. 

“We are waiting for you to arrange your class for singing 
our farewell hymns, as it will soon be time for our leaving the 
grounds,” she said. 

“Very well, Margaret, I will come right away,” answers 
Janette, and her friend disappeared. 

“Come, Mr. Desmond ; I must not keep them waiting.” 

“Why, I had no idea we have been away so long. Tell 
me, when shall I see you again? Will it be to-morrow?” 

“Oh, you do not really wish to come; you are only jest- 
ing,” coyly. 

“No; I am in earnest. May I come?” he entreats. 

“If you wish.” 


61 


They soon return, but with regret, and what a change was 
presented to their view. The table formerly so heavily laden 
with its luxuries was now destitute, and all were in readiness 
to depart. They stood awaiting the farewell exercises before 
looking their last upon the green foliage and flowers of the 
woods. 

5|eHs 

Now we will kindly ask our readers to go back with us 
ten years before the opening of our story. 

The sun was slowly sinking behind the western hills, and 
all was gloomy and desolate. 

In a lonely ravine between two mountains were two trav- 
elers, who with weary footsteps were wending their way 
through the thick underbrush. They were clothed in the habili- 
ments of miners, and strapped to their belts were pistols of 
various dimensions and long, curiously shaped knives, while 
thrown across the shoulders of each was a heavy, well-filled 
sack of nuggets, which they were guarding so carefully. They 
were on their way to civilization, straight from the gold fields, 
and one in particular was most anxious to proceed as far as 
possible before nightfall, and were on their way to a seaport, 
there to embark for their native land and home. Ah ! what a 
sweet sound to a wanderer’s ear is that word, home ! And so 
it was to these two, whose greatest desire was to find them- 
selves once more within sight of home, friends and comfort, 
for theirs had been a rough life during their exile in this 


62 


strange country; but each had determined never to return 
unless they could carry back with them the coveted gold of a 
successful trip. Although one was most anxious to proceed, 
yet he was the first to falter from sheer exhaustion, and, seat- 
ing himself upon one of the fallen trees, awaited the approach 
of his companion, who soon joined him, and laughingly ex- 
claimed: “How is it that when I wanted you to stop a while 
ago you would not? Now I see you are compelled to rest a 
while. Suppose we stay here until morning, and then perhaps 
we will be more able to proceed? Come, let us make our- 
selves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and 
to-morrow we will be refreshed enough to continue our jour- 
ney. What do you say, comrade?” suggested the shorter and 
darker one of the two. 

“It means one day longer added to our journey, but I see 
no help for it but to rest here for the night,” agreed the other. 

They were both handsome men, these toil-stained trav- 
elers, and though roughly attired and unbecomingly, still one 
could see that under better conditions their appearance would 
he greatly altered. The smaller one, whose features seemed 
more regular than his companion, though his countenance 
seemed more sinister and morose, had proved himself quite an 
entertaining as well as a helpful miner. They had become 
companions in their toils, and both had acquired some wealth, 
but the taller of the two had considerable more in his posses- 
sion than his comrade. 


63 


They gathered some brushwood for a fire to ward off 
wild animals, and darkness had scarcely thrown her mantle 
o’er the scene before the tall, handsome stranger lay wrapped 
soundly in slumber, perhaps dreaming of friends and loved 
ones at home whom he longed to see again ; the short one sat 
thoughtfully watching his friend, thinking of their past hard- 
ships and their successful efforts, and now happiness would 
crown them once again, and the life that stretched out vision- 
ary before them was all brightness and joy. “Yes ; but he will 
be wealthier than I ; he has been more successful,” said a still, 
small voice within him, making itself heard despite his efforts 
to ignore it. “Why not enrich yourself?” You could surely 
find a way to become the sole possessor of this vast and glori- 
ous wealth. Why not?” still questioned the tempting voice. 
He bids it to hush, that such thoughts are contemptible, loath- 
some, entirely unworthy of himself, for had not this com- 
panion been a faithful friend? Had he not tried in every way 
to be honorable and kind as was in his power ? Why, oh, why, 
would not this tempter be quiet and leave him in peace ? These 
thoughts passed through his mind as the sleeper lay entirely 
unconscious to either joy or sorrow, entirely oblivious of the 
cruel plans and temptations passing through the other’s mind. 
“I must put these thoughts aside, I must struggle to be free 
from them,” he mutters, and he fights a fierce struggle within 
himself ; but the more he tries to master this persistent monster, 
the more impossible he finds to accomplish it, and the tempter 


64 


rises more strong and mighty every moment as he gazes upon 
the sleeper. Cautiously and silently he moves toward him, 
fearful that his very breathing might awaken him. As he 
bends over him, he almost fails in his purpose, his heart almost 
misgives him ; his hand is stayed for a moment, but, alas ! it is 
but a momentary impulse, for Satan whispers : “It will be but 
a moment’s work, and think what wealth will then be yours. 
Why hesitate, when it may be at your command ?” 

Seeing that the other was indeed soundly sleeping, he 
glides swiftly and stealthily to his side, and plunges a long 
sharp, glittering blade into his breast, and, snatching the gold 
greedily, he flees with his burden, neither looking back at the 
terrible crime he had committed nor fully realizing its enor- 
mity; but an agonizing shriek rings in his ears which would 
haunt him day and night, which would make his vast wealth a 
curse upon earth as well as the land beyond. 

A short distance from this scene lives a hermit, alone, 
except for his large dog, a St. Bernard. As he sits by his fire- 
side, thinking of the happiness that might have been for him, 
he, too, hears the fearful cry, that agonizing cry that pierces 
the air for a single moment, but which fills him with an 
unknown horror. 

Not a moment is to be lost; he feels that this is no ordi- 
nary cry that has reached his ears and that has broken the 
stillness of his solitary home, but rather that of some terrible 
tragedy, and, calling his dog, he hastens out to see what appall- 


65 


ing occurrence must be connected with that shriek. He is none 
too soon ! His dog has at last discovered an object, dark and 
barely discernible by the torch which he carries, and as he 
stoops over the prostrate form, lying there still and motion- 
less, he finds he has arrived just in time to stanch the life- 
blood which was flowing in a constant little stream from the 
wounded man’s breast and dyeing the ground with its crimson 
stain. A few moments longer and he would surely have been 
too late. 

Although the hermit was an aged man, yet he was strong 
and powerfully built, so, picking up the poor, blood-stained 
figure, he carried him to his secluded hut, there to nurse him 
day and night until he should recover. 

What a weird, strange sort of man this hermit was ! In 
appearance he reminded one of the typical Santa Claus, his 
long beard of snowy whiteness and hair of the same silvery 
gleam, his eyes the only feature contradicting that worthy 
phenomenon, for in their depths a sadness lurked instead of a 
merry twinkle ; his clothing, however, was composed mostly of 
fur, except for great heavy top-boots, which he wore as a 
protection in this snowy, wintry climate. He acted as the 
good Samaritan for miles around, and none was more loved 
than this good, tender-hearted hermit of the wilds. 

The wound of the stranger was very dangerous, and it 
seemed an impossibility that he could live, but the hermit’s 
knowledge of doctoring with herbs saved his life; his every 


66 


thought was bent upon nursing back to life and health this 
stranger, so miraculously thrust across his path. During his 
convalescense the miner told the hermit how it had happened, 
and that he was now poor, and would have to return and try 
to regain at least enough to take him home. Of his little 
daughter he often talked, and he admitted it was for her dear 
sake that he had toiled and accumulated his wealth. 

Two weeks had now elapsed, and during that time Janette 
had taken quite a number of lessons from Geoffrey. The first 
time she had seen him she had thought him handsome and 
strangely like her manly ideal, but during these two weeks of 
constant companionship an undefined feeling had taken pos- 
session of her, and she wondered what made her blush and 
become so shy at his approach. She never cared to think of 
the time that he would return home, somehow the thought 
always caused her pain ; she preferred to think of the delight- 
ful present, and of when she should next see him. She had 
no thought of loving him ; oh, no ; she only knew that she liked 
him better than anyone else, that his manner and conversation 
attracted her, and that she would not care to have him return 
home and never see him again; and Geoffrey, he was now 
deeply in love with her, but was careful in every word and 
action to control his passion. 

One evening on his reaching Desmond Hall, on his return 
from one of his painting lessons, he learns his cousin had 


67 


arrived. This was no surprise to him, for they had rather 
expected him sooner, so when John informs him, he is greatly 
pleased; for, thinks he, “it will be less monotonous, for the 
more the merrier.” 

The new arrival is given a room similar to Geoffrey's, 
furnished luxuriously and in the latest fashion, and directly 
opposite his cousin's. Geoffrey has been afforded great amuse- 
ment in helping to select and arrange this little bachelor den, 
and expects to spend many an evening here, either playing 
billiards or whist, or telling some extraordinary tales of adven- 
ture and jests. 

One would suppose that Geoffrey would have felt some 
jealousy in connection with Howard, but it was to the con- 
trary, for when they were presented, they were each mutually 
pleased with one another, and soon enjoyed their rambles 
together, their uncle noticing this fact with pride and pleasure. 

Every afternoon at the usual hour Geoffrey always man- 
aged to absent himself, and his cousin was not long in finding 
this out, although he knew not its cause, but missed his com- 
panionship, and though he tried every inducement to keep him 
with him during this time, nothing proved availing. 

At last one day he attacks Geoffrey openly. “Geoffrey, I 
regret that you have to leave me every afternoon. Pray tell 
me what is the great attraction that keeps you away from 
the Hall?'' 


68 


“Why do you ask me?’’ says he, hesitatingly. “I am sorry 
to miss your company, but when I am not here you may be 
sure something important claims my attention elsewhere.” 

“Oh^ very well^. of course, if you do not care to tell me^ 
it is no aifair of mine,” he returns, and Geoffrey sees he is 
slightly offended. 

“I hope you are not offended,” he "says; “but, you see, 
there are times when even our best friends could not keep us 
from our purpose.” 

“Oh, I see; it must be a love affair. I am not at all 
offended, only I feel sorry to see you go, that is all,” he 
answers, briefly. 

And so another week passes, each day bringing sunshine 
and pleasure to Geoffrey, for each one brought him nearer to 
Janette, each one strengthened the tie that was fast forming 
between them ; and now if he happened to come a few minutes 
later than usual, she at once began to surmise something had 
happened and began to fear she knew not what. 

“Say, Geoff, why cannot I go with you sometime? Would 
there be any objection?” said Howard Wilmott, wistfully. 

Geoffrey is wondering if Janette would object, also if he 
will be running the risk of incurring Miss Barbara’s displeas- 
ure; but he sees that Howard’s regard is sincere, and he has 
no wish to wound his feelings by refusing to accept his com- 
panionship, so after giving it several moments’ consideration, 
he finally answers : “Certainly, Howard. I should have invited 


69 


you sooner, but thought it would be too monotonous for you. 
Come with m^ this afternoon if you like.” 

“All right, Geoif, and I’ should like to be presented to your 
friend and see your painting.” 

“Well, come, old fellow, it is time I was off, for she will 
be waiting for me.” 

With no premonition of coming days of sorrow, no warn- 
ing voice to stay their footsteps, they start off, and soon arrive 
at the familiar grotto, where Janette sits waiting, gazing into 
the little babbling brook as usual, perhaps wondering what the 
future held for her, perhaps thinking pi how near and dear 
Geoffrey has become to her. 

Geoffrey’s eyes are beaming with admiration as they rest 
upon the familiar figure, and he says in a low tone to Howard : 
“Now walk carefully, so that she will not hear us. I want to 
peep unperceived by her.” * 

“My, but she is a beauty,” said he, grasping Geoffrey by 
the arm. “She looks like the picture I see at uncle’s. By the 
way, Geoff, the idea has just occurred to me! Did you paint 
that picture? If you did, you certainly have patience and 
talent, but I suppose the subject was a very pleasing one to 
you ; that is, your model was a pleasing object. Hurry, I want 
to be presented to her.” And Geoffrey in reply picks up a 
piece of fern and throws it playfully over Janette’s shoulder. 

Startled, she draws her skirts around her in a frightened 
way, but when she sees it is only Geoffrey, she smiles and 


70 


says: “Oh, is it you? I thought perhaps you had forgotten 
me for to-day/’ Suddenly she spies his companion, and a con- 
fused flush dyes her cheek and then recedes, leaving her some- 
what paler than is her usual custom. 

“Miss Janette,” said he, advancing, “allow me to present 
you to my cousin, Howard Wilmott. You remember hearing 
me speak about him, do you not ? He wished to come with me 
this afternoon, but that will not interfere with our work in the 
least.” 

Howard holds out his hand cordially, and she feels com- 
pelled to respond in a like manner, but as she offers her hand a 
flush of annoyance overspreads her exquisite face; she does 
not care to have this stranger interfere, she feels that he is 
thrusting himself upon their society, for she feels that he must 
have known that Geoffrey would have preferred to have come 
alone, as would she herself. However, the small, shapely 
white hand is eagerly clasped within his own as he tells her 
how much pleasure is involved in this meeting; he fails to 
notice her confusion, and only thinks that upon closer observa- 
tion she is even more bewitching. 

“You have both chosen this place, of course, and I must 
say you are to be congratulated upon your selection,” he 
remarks. 

“It is an old-fashioned spot,” she murmurs, and she gazes 
at him distrustfully, she knows not why. 


71 


“So you thought I was not coming? Ah, Miss Janette, you 
must know better than that. I never fail to come,” says Geof- 
frey. “Were you waiting here very long before we came?” 

“Well, quite a half hour, I believe,” she admits, reluctantly. 
“You see, you are somewhat later than usual. Why not give 
a good account of yourself ?” 

She is laughing now. “I have a great mind to scold you 
for being so careless did I not know that you would take it in 
very bad grace, and probably punish me in turn by making my 
lesson a little more difficult. No; upon better consideration, I 
will not do that, but expect you to waste no time in starting 
at once.” 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” says Howard. “I came here pre- 
pared to be left somewhat to my own resources.” 

“Oh, I beg you to pardon me, but I believe you will not 
take it amiss if for a little while you find yourself completely 
ignored,” says Janette, smilingly; and although her words are 
not so very pleasant, still, her manner, he finds, is irresistible, 
and he is not offended by any means. 

“Now, Miss Janette, everything is in readiness for us to 
begin,” says Geoffrey. 

Many times during this lesson they find themselves in 
close proximity as they bend over the painting, only partially 
completed, and once some gold threads of her hair touches his 
face, and the memory of the caressing touch lingers with him 
all the rest of the day. 


72 


Once he starts to remonstrate with her about some error 
she is about to commit, and as he seeks to explain he says: 
“Now, look, Janette, this is the way. Let me guide your hand 
a moment, then you will see just what I mean.*' 

He says this very gently and is entirely unaware that he 
has dropped the formal title of “Miss,^’ but she perceives the 
difference and flushes rosily, while the little hand that he is 
guiding is trembling. This fact he notices at once, and, look- 
ing at her curiously and questioningly, he sees that her eyes are 
averted, and she tries to draw her hand away, in order that 
she may the sooner recover her usual equanimity ; this he will 
not allow, but keeps a firm grasp upon it and gazes into her 
’• face, compelling her to look up. 

“Don’t, please don’t,” she says, confusedly. 

He does not seem to hear her. 

“Don’t, please,” she says again, making a greater effort to 
release her hand. 

He does not at once comply with her low-spoken words, 
and after clasping it even more tightly within his own, a pres- 
sure that thrills her unaccountably, he reluctantly allows it to 
fall peacefully by her side. During this interval a message 
seems to have passed between them, an unspoken one, but one 
which reveals to them that each has met their affinity. 

Howard meanwhile walks off a short distance, and, seating 
himself on the grass nearby, is soon musingly watching them 
as they become interested in their work. “Geoff, at any rate. 


73 


knows how to appreciate beauty, but I do not think his admira- 
tion is that of an artist for his model ; it seems more serious,” 
thinks he as he watches Janette’s graceful figure and smiling 
face. ‘1 wonder how long they are going to be at their work, 
for I confess I am interested in her, and if I am to sit here all 
the time and never say anything to her, I shall feel sorry I came 
at all, for to see her is to — well, not quite love her, but to come 
very near to it. I wonder if he is going to be so selfish !” 

As he thus communes with himself, his dark eyes follow 
her every movement with admiration, and as though some 
magnetic influence was being exercised upon him ; he feels that 
never has he seen anyone so attractive, yet so unassuming, so 

*T 

graceful and free from vanity as this adorable creature with 
her azure eyes and rebellious golden curls. would like to 
know if Geoffrey is in love with her,” he continues. “I like 
Geoff, and I hope that he is not, for I fear that should he see 
that I admire her, it might make some difference in our friend- 
ship. However, I will not think of trouble until trouble bothers 
me. He is entirely worthy of this lovely creature, but still I 
hope that he has no other feeling than friendship for her.” 

The fact is this, he means to be a friend to Geoffrey, he 
admires him and means to be perfectly honest and straight- 
forward in every way toward him, and would not want any 
estranging cloud to interfere with their pleasant atmosphere at 
the Hall ; but he has seldom denied himself anything that he 
desired, unless powerless to obtain it, and he feels that should 


74 


his cousin possess any other feeling than friendship toward 
this fair maiden, there may be a rupture in the friendship that 
has meant so much to him of late. 

know that I have never cared for anyone so much at 
first sight as I do for her, and I really believe that this is going 
to be a case of love at first sight, so Geoffrey must not inter- 
fere with our friendship, for I shall try my best to win her; 
yes, I shall probably ask her to be my wife if I learn to love 
her enough. I am a fool to allow myself to be so head and 
ears in love (or whatever it is) with her this soon, but I 
suppose it must be my fate. She is more beautiful than any- 
one I have ever seen, and I love her, I believe, although this is 
but our first meeting.” And, thus thinking, he sits impatiently 
awaiting them, hoping every moment that their lesson is 
finished. 

After what seems an interminable time, he is summoned 
from his banishment by a call from his cousin, and together 
they walk with Janette to the gate. 

Howard meanwhile had stepped by her side, and with 
pleasant conversation engrosses her whole attention, and Geof- 
frey thereupon makes up his mind he will bring him no more ; 
but he does not give a hint of his intentions to Howard on 
their way home, but treats him in the same cordial manner that 
has always characterized their companionship, and Howard is 
in an unusually animated and gay mood all the way back to 
the Hall. Geoffrey admits to himself that he does not care to 


75 


see Howard become too friendly to the fair Janette, but he 
does not suspect that he has fallen so desperately in love with 
her, else he would have had cause to feel troubled, for he is by 
no means sure just how she regards him, although he is begin- 
ning to believe that she may reciprocate somewhat, else she 
would have been angry with him when he did not release her 
hand. He does not mean to waver in his resolve not to allow 
Howard to accompany him again, if it is in his power to detain 
him, for he realizes that although there might not be anything 
but friendship between these two, still, it would not do his 
cause any good, and he is selfish enough to wish to spend as 
much time as he possibly can alone with Janette. 

The next morning as he goes in search of Howard to ask 
his opinion about some little surprise they are planning- for 
their uncle, he finds him standing wrapped in thought gazing 
at the picture of Janette and the rock which they had recently 
painted, and he does not know what impels him to hesitate 
about disturbing him, but he finds that it is well nigh impos- 
sible for him to interrupt him, so he stands quietly there wait- 
ing, thinking perhaps he will turn around and spy him. He 
sees that Howard is gazing now with rapture upon this amaz- 
ing likeness, and he is not pleased, yet he is not jealous, for it 
never occurs to him that he, too, is in love with her. 

Suddenly he wheels around, exclaiming, “Geoff, I want to 
go with you again this afternoon.” 


76 


Speaking kindly but firmly, Geoffrey answers : ‘‘It is too 
damp for a lesson in the grotto to-day, so I am going to the 
house ; I would not care to take the liberty of inviting you 
there without first gaining the permission of the ladies.” 

Howard sees the wisdom of this, but he feels greatly 
vexed, and a dark frown gathers on his brow, for he had hoped 
to hear Geoffrey acquiesce, and he turns away, muttering some- 
thing inaudible. 

As for Geoffrey, he. sees he is offended, but, thinking it 
would soon pass over, pretends not to notice it ; but, neverthe- 
less, thinks it very unjust in him to expect to accompany him so 
soon again, so he starts off alone and lingers until the after- 
noon, spending his entire time in Janette^s company, and she 
seemed unusually pleased to see him. 

It is now no secret that Miss Barbara look§ favorably 
upon his visits, and she detains him longer than usual ; he, as 
a matter of fact, knows that this is a great point in his favor, 
for to be on a good footing with her means, at any rate, one 
obstacle removed, and then he is really amused at her oddity 
and comically prim ways. He does not feel that in her he has 
an enemy, or any reason to fear she will frustrate his plans for 
the future. Janette, too, does not seem quite so shy, and as he 
bids her farewell allows him to hold her hand longer than is 
necessary, and, to her surprise, he bends over and imprints a 
kiss ever so gently upon its velvety whiteness. 


77 


She does not remonstrate, but avoids fiis earnest gaze, and 
he sees she is greatly abashed. 

On his return home and all that evening Howard has very 
little to say to hj|n, and when he does vouchsafe some slight 
remark or answer to his questions, it is done so coldly and 
unfriendly that finally he no longer addresses him, but chats 
with his uncle, apparently unconscious that the other is eyeing 
him with great displeasure and dissatisfaction. George Des- 
mond’s eyes are peculiarly keen, and this cold demeanor on the 
part of his two nephews does not escape their notice, and he 

■4 

endeavors to remove the unpleasant feeling existing between 
them, and succeeds in a measure, as he thinks, for they both 
listen attentively to his anecdotes with apparent pleasure ; and 
although they are silent the greater part of the time, he takes 
this as a good sign, and is somewhat surprised when they part 
for the night that Howard completely ignores Geoffrey’s pres- 
ence, although he bids his uncle good-night with apparently 
the same good nature as of yore. Here, then, is a little mystery 
which he makes up his mind to find out the cause at his first 
opportunity, and as soon as Howard has passed from the room, 
he immediately turns to Geoffrey with inquiries plainly ex- 
pressed in his countenance. 

“Geoff, what is the meaning of this ? What has happened 
between you two boys to cause you to be so unpleasant toward 
each other this evening? Oh, there is-^ilo need to tell me that 
there is nothing the matter, for anyone watching you two for a 


78 


few moments would easily see that all is not right/' he finishes 
as Geoffrey is about to answer. “Have you been quarreling ?” 

“Oh, no, Uncle,” he says, emphatically, and Geoffrey in 
confidence tells all that has transpired between them. 

“I see, I see what the trouble is now,” and he looks greatly 
worried until he finds that his nephew is looking at him curi- 
ously. “Don’t ask me any questions and do not appear to 
notice that his manner is different, and all will blow over in a 
little while ; I am sure Howard is greatly attached to you,” he 
says in his most soothing way, in an effort to comfort Geoffrey, 
whom he knows is sensitive and who takes such cuts to heart. 
“Don’t bother about him, and all will be well.” 

The next day is the same in regard to Howard. He keeps 
to himself nearly all the day, and when evening comes and 
Geoffrey proposes a game of chess by way of amusement, he 
coolly declines, and finding that Geoffrey is determined to make 
an end to their estrangement and to be on pleasant terms again, 
he quits the room, pleading some letters to write, and only 
returns to bid his uncle “Good-night.” 

Imagine Geoffrey’s surprise a few evenings after this 
occurrence as he reached Janette’s to find his cousin sitting and 
pleasantly entertaining Miss Barbara and her niece in the sit- 
ting room. All looked cozy and bright, and as he entered 
Janette was reclining in an easy chair, with some dainty fancy 
work lying idly in her lap. The parson was there, too, but 
seemed to be a silent listener, or most probably deeply en- 


79 


grossed in thought. His cousin was all animation and looked 
handsomer than Geoffrey had ever before seen him, but his 
countenance plainly depicted his annoyance as he enters the 
room, and it is not long before he reluctantly departs. Of 
course. Miss Barbara is greatly pleased and flattered during 
the time he has passed in her company, for Howard had tried 
to be most winning toward her, for he realized to have her for 
his friend would be an advantage gained. As for Janette, she 
has been somewhat annoyed at his calling, especially as she 
had extended to him no invitation, but she is polite and tries to 
be agreeable for Geoffrey’s sake, for she believes they are 
friends and knows nothing of the rupture of the last few days ; 
and then she is forced to admit that he is a brilliant conversa- 
tionalist, so witty and original, and though she had no inten- 
tion of being so well entertained by him, she soon found her- 
self laughing heartily at some of his humorous stories and 
remarkable adventures. But when Geoffrey enters, her real 
pleasure has begun, although she does not laugh quite so much, 
for his presence always seems to abash her strangely. She is 
not sorry, by any means, to have his company instead of the 
cousin Howard’s. 

Geoffrey sits more silently than is his usual custom, and 
Janette is not long in noticing it, for he scrutinizes her thought- 
fully, and every once in a while starts to say something, then 
checks himself abruptly. At last she inquires : “Why so 
thoughtful? I believe for the last half hour you have done 


80 


nothing but stare at me. I should like to know what you are 
thinking about, for it must be a very interesting subject to 
make you so silent.” 

^‘Would you ? I had not noticed, but perhaps it is because 
I am not feeling so well to-night.” 

“Perhaps you have been working too much with the les- 
sons. You know I warned you I would be a dull scholar.” 

“On the contrary, you are a very apt one, and are pro- 
gressing beyond my expectations, but we should have our les- 
sons indoors soon ; it is most too cool and damp for you in the 
grotto now.” 

“That is just about what I was going to say to you. We 
certainly must have our lessons here, so the next time you come, 
come straight to this room and you will find me here waiting 
for you, unless — well you will please excuse me to-morrow 
afternoon, as I have an engagement which is very urgent, and 
I — well, I could not refuse.” 

He looks startled, but says, “Then I am to consider that 
you are going to take a little holiday? Very well, I will not 
come to-morrow. May I ask if you are intending to elope?” 
he questions laughingly, but one can easily see that it is forced, 
and he is perplexed and uneasy. 

“Shall I tell you? Will you be angry? Well, I am going 
for a drive with your cousin.” 

He looks incredulous for a moment, but answers quite 
calmly, “I hope you enjoy yourself. Why should I be angry? 


81 


I have no right to expect so much of your company, I have no 
wish to keep you here when you may as well be out in the air 
getting some exercise and pleasure. And then Howard is so 
jolly and animated that I know you will not regret that you 
gave your time to a day's pleasure. In fact, I think you have 
done well to choose a day’s outing in this kind of weather.” 

She is greatly disconcerted at his calmness, she would have 
preferred to see that this annoyed him even slightly, and is 
innocently wondering if he cares. 

''You know,” she continues apologetically, “I could not 
very well refuse. He seemed so kind about it, and then I did 
not care to wound his feelings.” 

"You are always kind.” 

She fancies his voice has a slight intonation of sarcasm in 
its tones, but, looking up into his face, she sees that he is appar- 
ently undisturbed, and even more coolly self-possessed than 
usual. She is somewhat piqued ; she would have liked him to 
show that he cared even a little. "I shall, of course, expect to 
see you on the following day if you will be so kind, and will 
try to make up for the lost time given to frolic,” she adds 
gently. 

"Consider me entirely at your service,” he answers briefly. 
He appears so utterly indifferent and cool that Janette is 
secretly on the verge of tears, and to hide her feelings turns to 
Mr. Quigley with jests and smiles, thereby making that indi- 
vidual delighted and contented for the rest of the evening. As 


82 


for Geoffrey, he rouses himself from his meditations, and is 
the gayest of them all, one might say too gay to be natural, and 
succeeds in completely mystifying Janette and thereby making 
her thoroughly miserable, and she is not sorry when he bids 
them farewell in his brightest manner. However, she offers 
him her hand as usual in parting, and she notices that he only 
grasps it in the most friendly manner, and almost immediately 
releases it. 

“You are not angry?” she asks anxiously. “If I thought 
that, I would send word to your cousin that it will be impossible 
to accompany him. Tell me! I have no wish to have you 
offended with me. Do you know you are almost my best 
friend? Yes, I know that you are now.” 

“Thank you. Believe me, I am not angry,” he replies. 

Nevertheless, she is still quite anxious, and is not satisfied 
that he is on the best of terms with her. 

“Then you will be over just the same after to-morrow? 
You will not forget?” 

“Of course I shall not, only if you change your mind and 
wish to make your holiday a little longer, let me know before- 
hand.” 

“There, I knew you were angry! No, no, don't try to 
explain,” she says, warding him off. “You are angry and there 
is no use denying it.” 


83 


He is smiling now. ‘'Come, Janette, forgive me. You 
know I could not be angry with you for even a moment. I was 
only somewhat surprised, and, of course, I shall miss seeing 
you, that is all. I am a little disappointed, but then I can see 
you other days, and if you wish to have an outing, why should 
I object? You say we are friends, so I feel amply rewarded in 
that fact, even though I shall not see you for one day. Come, 
do not think that I am angry. Why I mtist not be angry with 
you, and you understand me, do you not, Janette? You know 
why I could not be angry with you? Well, if you do not now, 
you shall know some day, until then believe that I am not angry 
or even offended, and I shall look forward to the day when I 
shall see you again.” 

He is looking at her earnestly now, and her hand is clasped 
within his own, and as he releases it he carries it to his lips, 
and in another moment he is gone, and she stands there puzzled, 
with one fair hand hiding her burning face, and the other wav- 
ing a last farewell. 

The next day Geoffrey feels sad and lonely indeed, but 
tries to be cheerful and like himself, so as the morning deep- 
ened into afternoon and being accustomed to his daily stroll, he 
starts out to explore some nook which perhaps has escaped his 
observation heretofore, and as the country was at its height of 
beauty, he wandered into grounds overshadowed and shaded by 
shrubbery and trees, and soon became interested in sketching 
the scene before him and in thinking of Janette. 


84 


He had not yet completely recovered from the surprise of 
finding Howard at Janette's on the evening previous, and that 
she would not expect him over to-day. Yes, to-day is the day 
she will keep her engagement with his cousin. In one way he 
is not sorry, for he is anxious that she should know her own 
heart, know whether she could like him better than anyone 
else, and he wants to give her a fair trial, so that when the time 
should come, she will decide and then never afterward regret 
her action. What he wants is her love, but he is willing to for- 
feit that if fate decides that someone else shall be favored, 
someone else can win her from him, and if Howard likes her, 
he feels that he has as much right to try to win her as himself. 
Yet he can scarcely forgive Howard for going there without 
even mentioning it beforehand; still, he cannot help admiring 
his courage and coolness in presenting himself without even an 
invitation, for he had not heard Janette ask him to come again. 
If it had been anyone else but the girl of his heart, he would 
have felt happy, and done everything in his power to help him 
in his love affair, but he thinks how bitter is the irony of fate 
that his own cousin should fall in love with her, that they who 
would have been no ordinary friends should now be such bitter 
rivals for a young girl's heart. He has no doubt that Howard 
is in love with her, for the very light in his eyes betrayed his 
secret, and he had lost no time in calling there. He had over- 
come all difficulties, and Geoffrey knows he has no ordinary 
rival, and truly admires him as much as he fears him. 


85 


Time passes rapidly as he sits there so busy at work, and 
not until a shadow darkens his canvas does he discover that it 
is much later than he had anticipated, and that dusk is throw- 
ing her impenetrable mantle o’er the summer scene, and obscur- 
ing the brilliant rays of the sun as it sinks to rest beneath the 
western horizon. Hastily he gathers his materials together, 
and prepares to wend his way homeward. He has traversed 
but a short distance when a team passes by, stirring up clouds 
of dust, and he recognizes his cousin and Janette as the occu- 
pants. They were laughing merrily and apparently enjoying 
themselves, and Geoffrey feels many pangs of jealousy as he 
witnesses this, but contents himself with the fact that it will 
not be long before his turn comes. Nodding to him, they pass 
onward, and he hears Janette’s silvery laugh ring out on the 
summer breeze. 

“Howard is inaugurating himself in Janette’s graces and 
becoming quite a favorite with Miss Barbara as well. I fear I 
shall be supplanted in a short time, and it has not taken him 
long to fall head and ears in love ; but who could help falling in 
love with such a winsome girl as Janette? But that is not the 
question. I must be thinking about leaving soon, and before I 
do go I must try to find how I stand in her estimation, for I 
truly love her and wish to marry her. If she prefers Howard 
— well, the world will be more than dreary for me. Yes, if 
she prefers Howard, then I shall be satisfied, for all is fair in 


86 


love and war. Heigh ho! Is that you Joe? Why are you 
following me? What do you want?” 

“Mr. Geoffrey, Ts gwine to tell you som’in’.” Here Joe 
hesitates, and Geoffrey sees where the trouble lies, for Joe 
looks cautiously around him as though fearing interruption. 
“Well, speak out, there is no one around to hear you, and you 
need not fear. Do you want a quarter ? Is that the trouble ?” 

“Don’t ’ject, sir,” answers Joe, exposing his even set of 
ivories, and rolling his eyes heavenward in apparent glee. 

“Catch it, then,” says Geoffrey, tossing him a coin. “Now 
let me hear your wonderful secret. Is it about Mr. Quigley 
and Miss Barbara?” 

“Not dis time. It is dis. Mr. Howard gibs me money. 
What for, you say? Well, sir, to watch you so as I can tell 
him when you goes to see Miss Netta. Now he wanted to gib 
me more to listen to what you has to say, but. Lord! I tells 
him I’s got no time to listen, I’s got to pay ’tention to Miss 
Bawba.” 

“Well, Joe, what else ?” and Geoffrey laughs heartily at his 
cunning ways, and the mischievous glitter of the black eyes. 

“What more am you gwine to want? Fs done told you.” 

“Well, I have a great mind to remonstrate with you, Joe, 
and yet I believe you do not intend any harm toward me; 
but I want to tell you to be good enough not to accept bribes 
neither from my cousin nor myself, and I feel sure you will 
find money coming your way. Now, do you understand?” 


87 


‘‘Yes, sir,** says Joe, somewhat crestfallen. 

He had laughed heartily at Joe*s crafty ways, but as he 
pursues his way onward, he gives more serious thoughts to 
what Joe has said, and is sorry to find that Howard is using 
unfair means, and does not like such conduct in the least. He 
was greatly disappointed in Howard, for he fully intended giv- 
ing him ample opportunity to enjoy Janette*s company, but did 
not intend relinquishing all claims to her society to please him, 
neither did he intend to place any obstacles, should it be in his 
power, in Howard*s path. In fact, he intended to act honor- 
ably and squarely, even though it should end in his downfall 
and mean success to his rival. He tries, however, to forgive 
him for thus trying to take advantage of him in such a stealthy 
manner, and therefore met him with pleasant greetings as 
usual, and as Howard was in a more amiable mood and some- 
what talkative, they spent a much more pleasant evening than 
for several nights past together. 

The weather for a few days became dismal and disagree- 
able, a real north-easterly rain. Geoffrey sat dreamily gazing 
from the library window. He had taken a severe cold, which 
confined him to the house, and had been compelled to write 
Janette a note in explanation ; no doubt Howard in the mean- 
time was making good use of his time, for he seemed unusually 
cheerful, and as Geoffrey gazes there, feeling miserably dis- 
consolate, he comes bustling into the room with coat and cap, 
whistling a tune, and startles Geoffrey from his reverie. 


88 


“Oh, by the way, Howard, do you know what has become 
of Emerson’s poems? I have looked for them everywhere, 
and thought perhaps you were reading them.” 

“So I was a short time ago. If you will wait a moment, I 
shall get them for you, as they are in my room,” and out he 
goes, returning in a short time with the book mentioned. 

Geoffrey thanks him, and offers him some cigars, but 
Howard declines, and is soon making his way through the ave- 
nue of dripping elms, and Geoffrey sees him as he passes 
through the heavy iron gate. Their relationship is not exactly 
as of yore; still, they are not on disagreeable terms. It was 
quite dark when he again returns, but he converses pleasantly 
with his cousin and uncle, and even repeats a teasing message 
which Janette has asked him to deliver to Geoffrey. 

Finally, after a few days the clouds roll over, and the sun 
shines forth once more. Gladly the birds pour forth their 
sweet songs, and even the fowls set up an incessant crowing 
and cackle, while Mr. Peacock stretches his feathers and struts 
up and down the lawn as proud as a king. 

Geoffrey wraps himself with care and wends his way 
slowly to see Janette, who welcomes him cordially, while Miss 
Barbara is very solicitous for his health, and wishes immedi- 
ately to brew for him some of her balm tea, but he thankfully 
declines. 


89 


“Is your cold much better? I fear this outing will not 
improve it much, though truly I am glad to see you,” ventures 
Janette timidly. 

“Yes, I think it is better, and I have had to stay in the 
house so much that now I have freedom once more, I intend to 
make the most of it. And you? I suppose you have been in 
the best of health and spirits ? But there is no use asking you 
that ; you look brighter and happier than I have ever seen you. 
I suppose you have been enjoying yourself?” 

“You know I have not; you know I wanted to see you,” 
she answers in a low tone. 

“Then you do not forget your old friends?” 

“Don’t,” she says reproachfully. “I shall never forget 
you.” 

He had been seated but a short time when Howard came 
and coldly greeted him, while he takes a seat near Janette, and 
tries to engross her whole attention. Howard determines to 
outstay him to-day, no matter what happens. 

Geoffrey tries to pass everything off pleasantly, and in a 
measure succeeded by giving Howard all the advantages, and 
departed earlier than usual, and slowly pursued his way back 
to the Hall greatly depressed, although Janette has given him 
cause to feel greatly encouraged. 

It was now the last part of September. The meridian 
sun sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth upon leaves 
and shrubbery that the frost has tinged with various hues. 


90 


The cool winds sweep them in heaps, scattering them in every 
direction, while down in the grotto, where the stream glides 
sluggishly onward, the gorgeous hues of yellow, red and green 
reflect from the banks into the cool, clear water. It is a sweet 
spot if tinged with sadness. Summer has gone, and Geoffrey 
must soon leave, and to leave may mean to leave all that is 
brightest in this life and the girl he loves so dearly. There he 
stands patiently awaiting Janette, with whom he has made an 
appointment for a walk, and glancing around at the familiar 
scenes. 

^T have made up my mind to be silent no longer. I must 
declare my love to Janette. She may not love me, and we may 
part in utter sadness, but somehow my heart tells me that she 
loves me, that if I leave her it will be but to return to claim her 
as my bride. Must I leave this familiar scene where so many 
happy moments have been spent? Must it be for years, and 
perhaps forever?” he muses. “That depends on her answer 
to-day. I could make her happy, and I would make her happy 
if she loves me and will be my wife. If I leave her, nothing 
will be the same to me, there will be no hope of happiness in 
this world for me ; whereas, if she accepts me, I shall strive to 
show my thankfulness to God for blessing me with such a 
treasure as her dear self.” 

A merry laugh breaks upon his ear, while a bright voice 
calls out, “A penny for your thoughts,” and he turns quickly 


91 


to catch a glimpse of her gracefully rounded figure and radiant, 
piquant face. 

“If I thought my thoughts would please you, I would 
gladly express them,” he answers earnestly. 

Janette blushes and looks down at the dead leaves at her 
feet. “Have I kept you waiting long?” asks she, looking up 
with a smile. 

“No, not very long, still I am glad you have come. I have 
been enjoying this scene, although it is autumn,” answers 
Geoffrey as he walks happily by her side. 

“But then you will soon be leaving, and I shall not see you 
any more. How soon is it to be, Mr. Desmond, that you intend 
returning home ?” 

“I received a letter from my father to-day. He wishes me 
to return as soon as possible to get some insight of the business, 
for he wishes me to become one of the firm, so it necessitates 
an early departure.” 

“I — I — had no idea you were to return so soon,” and her 
face pales and there is a little catch in her voice as of emotion 
or agitation. 

“Will you be sorry, Janette ? Will I be missed then ? Of 
course, you know Howard is not going to college just yet, and 
he comes over quite frequently, does he not ?” 

“Yes ; but he is not you, and you know that I do not want 
you to go.” . .. 


92 


“But that is not answering my question. Will you miss 

mer 

“You know that I shall miss you dreadfully, without 
asking.” 

After walking a short distance, they return to the house, 
and Miss Barbara invites him to stay for tea. 

”You must not refuse, Mr. Desmond, for you are return- 
ing to New York soon, and we will not be able to see you very 
often,” says Miss Barbara, hospitably. 

“Yes ; you must not think of going now. Stay with us for 
tea this time,” joins in Janette, and Geoffrey happily accepts. 

While Janette is busily preparing supper, Geoffrey and 
Miss Barbara are engaged in interesting conversation. Her 
first inquiry is if he has seen anything of Mr. Quigley of late. 

“You forget that I have not been out of the house for 
some time. I have not seen him. Nothing has happened? I 
hope ?” 

“I fear he is sick,” with a long-drawn sigh. “He has not 
been over for several days, and I was expecting him last 
evening.” 

“Perhaps not. Miss Barbara. His pastoral duties may 
have kept him away, although I have not the least doubt he 
would like to be here, for only this morning Uncle was telling 
me there was so much disease in the neighborhood, and that 
Mr. Quigley is very attentive to his parishioners.” 


‘93 


“Yes,” says Miss Barbara; “he is a very good man and 
deserving of a good wife.” 

“Wife, did you say? Does he anticipate marrying again?” 
asks Geoffrey, looking very innocent and guileless the while, 
while he is inwardly choking with laughter. 

Folding her hands complacently and with some audible 
giggles and bashful twisting of the head, she answers : “O — h, 
yes; and who can blame him? Poor man! He has no one to 
do anything for him but the servants, and he told me only a 
few nights ago that everything was going to rack and ruin for 
lack of attention, and that if a certain lady would answer the 
question favorably that he would propound, he would be the 
happiest man living. What do you think of that? That lady 
intends to answer that question favorably,” and with that she 
excuses herself and goes out to help Janette, feeling very 
proud of her conquest. 

Janette, coming in on an errand soon after, finds him con- 
vulsed with laughter. 

“You must have very pleasant thoughts to be laughing so 
much. What is the matter ?” and she looks at him expectantly. 

His only answer is more laughter, and the tears almost 
steal down his cheeks from its heartiness. It is some moments 
before he can control himself enough to answer. Finally, he 
says between laughter: “Miss Barbara has just given me an 
enigma to solve, but it is such an easy task. Oh, it is too funny 


94 


for anything !” and again he gives sway to his mirth. “I will 
tell you at a more convenient time, and you will enjoy it, too.’^ 

*‘Very well, I shall keep you to your promise.” 

Shortly after the merry meal the young people go out for 
a stroll in the moonlight, and, strangely enough, the aunt does 
not seek to interfere. 

“Now, Mr. Desmond,” says Janette, slipping her little 
hand through his arm to keep from stumbling over any sticks 
or stones in the darkness, “I never saw you enjoy yourself 
more than to-night, and you have my curiosity aroused. Tell 
me what you were laughing about.” 

He then related her aunt’s conversation about Mr. Quig- 
ley, and suddenly he asks : “Who do you suppose the fortu- 
nate lady is? Of course, you are not blind.” 

Janette’s only answer is to join heartily in the laughter as 
they walk onward, but neither was aware that a pair of jealous 
black eyes were watching them and burning with anger as they 
peered among the bushes. 

Janette’s little hand lies upon his arm, and he can feel her 
pulse’s rapid throbbing as they continue in silence, finally 
broken by him. 

“It depends upon you whether I go or stay, Janette. I 
have restrained myself from telling you, but I can keep quiet 
no longer ; I must know what my fate is to be. Janette, I love 
you, love you so dearly that without you life can never be the 
same. I love you with my whole heart and soul, and I want 


95 


you to answer me, to tell me if you love me in return. I have 
wished — nay, longed — for this moment, and now that it has 
come, do not keep me in suspense, for I love you so dearly. 
My life is at your disposal ; tell me, Janette, what you intend 
doing with it. TeU me if you are going to make me the hap- 
piest man or the most miserable ? Which shall it be ?” 

Her face is crimson, her eyelids have drooped over those 
marvelous blue eyes and her heart is beating so rapidly she 
cannot answer. 

He retains her hand within his own, and attempts to draw 
her closer as he continues with great eloquence: “What are 
you going to do with my life? Tell me if you love me, make it 
more valuable than it now is, and— be my wife, my little help- 
mate for life. Will you?” 

She looks up shyly and blushingly to meet his brown, 
earnest eyes upon her. 

“Yes,” she whispers faintly and with eyes downcast, while 
her slender white fingers twitch nervously. 

In a perfect transport of joy he draws her to his breast 
and looks with adoration into her shy, flushed face. “Am I 
dreaming, Janette? My own? You will never regret your 
choice, darling. Never,” and, slipping his mother’s wedding 
ring upon her finger, kisses her smiling lips for the first time. 
“You are now my betrothed, my dearest.” 

“You will always love me this way? I am happy now.” 


96 


“Need you ask me that, dearest? My love shall never fail 
you.” 

“And you will not go away now ? You will not leave me ?” 
she questions. 

“If I leave you, darling, it will be but for a few days at 
the most. Remember that the best of lovers must part, but our 
parting shall not be for long. Why, Janette, you know well 
that I could not leave you long, and never if I could help my- 
self, but it is essential that I give some of my time to business, 
for you would not have me stay around in perfect idleness, 
would you? Of course, as far as finances are concerned, I 
might do that, but such a life would not be a preferable one 
by any means. No; I want to show my darling that should I 
ever be deprived of my fortune, I could still provide luxuries 
for my little wife. Is not that right, dear ?” 

“Of course, you are always right, but don’t let there be 
any talk of fortune with me. I would rather think that you 
possessed none, for I am, as you know, penniless, and it makes 
me feel — oh, how can I explain myself ?” 

“Don’t try to explain. You are a fortune in yourself; to 
me you are the most wonderful fortune that ever existed or 
ever could exist, and I want my darling to know that she will 
not be alliancing herself to a pauper. Now, I want you to kiss 
me of your own free will, just to let me see how much you 
love me,” and he draws her closer and gently clasps her arms 
around his neck. She hesitates a number of times, drawing 


97 


back in girlish confusion, but finally she allows her lips to 
gently graze his cheek. 

“But, Geoffrey, we really must return now,” she says at 
length, and as she calls him by his Christian name she blushes 
vividly. “It is no improvement to your cold our being in the 
night air. I must look after you a little now,” and with buoy- 
ant footsteps they soon arrive at the cottage, and enter the 
sitting room together, but almost immediately Janette slips out 
to the kitchen to escape observation, for she knows they will 
see the love-light shining in her eyes and the glow upon her 
cheeks. 

“Miss Barbara, wish me great joy, for your niece has 
promised to become my wife. I hope to receive your bless- 
ings, and will endeavor to be a good nephew,” says Geoffrey, 
quietly. 

She does not seem surprised; in fact, she so expresses 
herself. “I am not surprised, for I have for some time noticed 
your attentions to Janette, and suspected her preference for 
you. Janette,” she calls, “come here.” 

She enters with great timidity. 

“I admire your fiance’s candor in thus confiding in me. 
He does not hesitate to tell me, while you run off. Come, 
children, be happy, it will not be very long before I shall follow 
suit,” and with a pleased smile Miss Barbara watches the two, 
although Janette has very little to say, for she is so covered 
with confusion. 


98 


He at last and with great reluctance departs, and Janette 
bids him farewell at the door. 

will be over in the morning, darling,” and he bends over 
and kisses the pretty lips, so temptingly near. 

“You audacious boy!” exclaims she with a shy, radiant 
face, and bidding him a fond “Good-night” they reluctantly 
part, and he looks back every now and then at her little figure 
in the doorway, and presently sees her disappear into the house. 

Oblivious of his surroundings, with happy thoughts and 
buoyant footsteps, he wends his way, planning the future 
which promises to be so bright for him and one other, his 
future wife, whom he almost worships. He had not gone very 
far when a figure steps forth in the moonlight and confronts 
him, entirely blocking his passageway. Scarcely recognizable 
was the face, distorted with jealousy and passion, and eyes 
gleaming brighter with anger. With hand uplifted, he ex- 
claims: “Dastard! Traitor! How dare you kiss the girl I 
love and wish to wed. How dare you?” 

“By what right, Howard,” said Geoffrey fearlessly, 
wheeling around as he recognizes his cousin’s voice, “have you 
to address me in such a manner. Am I accountable to you for 
my actions ?” 

How startled he was on seeing the ghastly white face and 
blazing eyes. 

“First answer me. I have the right to know, for as I have 
just told you, I expect to marry her.” 


99 


“Well, I think it just as well that you should know. She 
is my betrothed, that is my right. Have you anything to say ?” 

“You are lying to me. It is not true, I will never be- 
lieve it.” 

“I am all the more sorry for that, as it does not alter the 
fact that she is my affianced wife.” 

“You lie, for I believe you are only trifling with her, while 
I would die for her,” says the other huskily, and becoming 
more angry and jealous every moment. “You are trifling, you 
never mean to marry her.” 

Geoffrey draws himself up proudly to his full height and 
starts to proceed, too indignant to make reply. 

“You are false to the core and a coward in the bargain,” 
continues the enraged man. 

“Howard, take that back. You must not provoke me too 
much,” says Geoffrey in a sad conciliatory tone. “Remember 
to whom you are speaking. I would not have believed this of 
you, and I believed you to be my friend. How can you say 
that, Howard ?” 

His tone is full of sad reproach, which only seems to 
goad the other on more fiercely. 

“You shall not have her, Geoffrey Desmond. She would 
have accepted me if it had not been for you. You knew I was 
going over this evening and you know for what purpose, and 
you went first ; yes, took a mean advantage, and by Heaven you 
shall pay for it, else I am not Howard Wilmott,” and with 


100 


these words and without any warning whatever, he draws 
from his breast a concealed dagger, and quickly as a flash, 
while Geoffrey’s back is turned, plunges it deeply into his side. 
Not realizing what has happened, and with a most agonizing 
groan, he clutches the air, as it were, for support, and with a 
totter falls forward and sinks upon the ground in a writhing 
heap, which a moment later is dyed with a stream of blood. 
A few more groans and useless struggles, then all is silent; 
nothing but a dark heap upon the ground to be connected with 
the happy man of a few moments since, the noble-hearted, 
sincere fellow who would have done most anything for this 
cousin except to give up his sweetheart, his future wife. 

And Howard? He stands for a moment as one in a 
dream. He cannot believe his senses. He listens ! He bends 
V over the prostrate figure and places his hand over the heart to 

see if it still beats, or if, on the contrary, every spark of life 
has died out. “Is he dead?” he asks himself in a husky whis- 
per. He places his ear over the heart to hear its faint beatings, 
if such there be. “What have I done?” he cries hoarsely, pass- 
ing his hand over his forehead in a dazed manner. “My God ! 
I did not intend to kill him. What shall I do ? I must fly from 
the terrible scene, fly for my life, fly from justice ! But where? 
Hark ! what is that ? I hear someone coming,” and hiding the 
blood-stained dagger, he rushes through the bushes like one 
mad, anywhere, just to be away from the sight of blood, and 


101 


that still, still figure, saying to himself as an incentive, as it 
were, to his flight, “Fly, fly, fly for my life 

Joe had been over to the Colonel’s since noon. It was 
what they called “hog killing day,” and at these times great 
excitement reigned, and Joe, like all other boys of his age, 
delighted in watching the process, and especially the scalding 
and cleaning. He made himself quite useful, too, as well as 
an admiring spectator, and it was unusually late when his 
mother compelled him to return home. The moon was at its 
height of beauty, shining in silvery splendor down as peace- 
fully as though it never had witnessed anything to darken its 
bright serenity, or so recently a scene of horror and bloodshed. 

Joe, however, was not alone, for his pet, a yellow mongrel 
of the most forlorn species, which had been given him by a 
farmer a few weeks previous, accompanied his lonely journey, 
and kept running in advance and then retreating, and giving 
vent to loud yelps and snarls. 

“What in de world am de matter wid you, dog? Must 
hab fits or else I ’spects you sees a possum or coon up some 
ob dem trees. Fse gwine to tell Uncle Ben de next time I goes 
to the Colonel’s and maybe we can cotch Mr. Coon; most too 
late to go back now, ’sides dey is not fat ’nough yet, cas dey 
ain’t had no persimmons yet. Wouldn’t Uncle Ben like to 
know, though? ’Spects he would stretch him ejres ef I jest 
dared breathe dis yere secret. See about dat, though, ain’t yet 


102 


made up my mind, so you jest better be quiet, Mr. Dog, cause 
it ain’t gwine to do no good carryin’ on like dat. Ain’t sorry 
you let me know dem furry folks is about, but tain’t no time 
to cotch dem now. Reckon Uncle Ben won’t do a thing to 
dem after a while.” 

He pursues his way again, muttering thus all the while, 
while the dog heeded not his strange mumbling and seemed 
only the more to yelp and bark, until Joe’s patience is well 
nigh ended, at any rate he tires of wasting so much talk upon 
such an unappreciable audience and lapses into silence. 

Suddenly he stumbles and almost falls over some object 
in the darkness, and is now truly frightened, imagining all 
sorts of things, for he sees his dog refuses to go any further, 
and he is compelled to find out what it can be. 

“Good Lord sabe us !” he exclaims. What am dis ? Does 
I b’liebs my eyes, am dis jest some trick to fool me? Lord sabe 
us!” and looking down he sees a most gruesome sight, the 
body of a man lying in a pool of blood, clotted and cold in the 
moonlight. One hand is thrown above the head, the other 
stiff and clutching at his heart, but no movement or sound as of 
breathing coming from the prostrate form. 

“Miss Netta, Miss Bawba! Oh, Miss Netta, come yere,” 
screams Joe, now thoroughly afraid of his own shadow. “Lord 
sabe us! Oh, Miss Netta! Miss Netta! What I seen what I 
seen !” With scream after scream he dashes up to the house, 
breathless and with eyes bulging with dread and horror, by 


103 


this time scarcely able to articulate one word, but making the 
most mysterious gestures and signs. 

*‘Sit here, Joe, and be quiet a moment and then you can 
tell us what has happened,” says Janette. 

'‘Oh, Miss Netta, it is there! The man! Oh, I saw him,” 
he cries at last when able to speak. 

“What man, Joe? Where did you see him? You must 
be dreaming, or you would not talk so strangely and excitedly. 
“Take time and tell us all that has happened.” 

“Miss Netta — oh, the man what is killed! Yes, he am 
killed fer I seen him just now.” 

“A man killed? Do tell me more, Joe,” and her heart is 
almost bursting with anxiety and dread lest something could 
have befallen Geoffrey. “Where did you see him?” 

“He was a layin’ there, oh, so still, in de moonlight, and he 
looked to me at fust jest as if he fell asleep dar, but Miss 
Netta he warn’t asleep no sich, fer he lay so still, no one could 
sleep like dat. He am killed. Miss Netta, I knows!” 

“But come, Joe, you have not told me where you saw him,” 
she says as gently as she can command herself. 

Miss Barbara appears. “A man killed, did you say? 
Where, where? Oh, save us!” and she runs around the room 
like someone crazed, and perhaps she was for the moment, 
with fright. “You little imp, why don’t you hurry up and tell 
what you know ? Keeping people in such suspense all the time. 
Do you hear me ?” 


104 


“Fse gwine to, Fse gwine to,'’ he says fearfully, making 
a fresh attempt to disclose his wonderful tale. 

'‘Never mind him. Aunt, he will tell us if we give him 
time. You say he is laying out there in the moonlight. I sup- 
pose you mean down by the grove ? Is that where you mean ?” 

“Yes, yes. Miss Netta, you is right. It were jest dar!” 

“Did you know the man? Say, Joe, nothing has hap- 
pened to Geoffrey — Mr. Desmond?" but before he can answer 
out rushes Miss Barbara, followed by Janette, while Joe still 
yelled and pointed toward the stile, and gesticulating wildly he 
screams, “It am dar ! It am dar ! Oh, good Lord ! Dar is a 
man dead and somebody hab killed him." ^ 

“Where did you say, Joe?" questions Janette. 

“By de stile. He am dar ! He am dar !" 

Janette, with great apprehension at the thought that Geof- 
frey had not long been gone, starts swiftly for the spot with 
Miss Barbara following in her wake. They had almost reached 
it when some colored men returning home from the Colonel’s 
where they had been helping in the work, arrived there first, 
and were bending over the prostrate form with horror plainly 
expressed upon their faces. 

With one glance Janette recognizes her lover, and with a 
most pitiful cry of horror and anguish falls in a heap to the 
ground as helpless as an infant. 

Miss Barbara alone retains her self-possession and pres- 
ence of mind. 


105 


“Two of you men carry him to my home/’ said she as she, 
too, recognized the man who not a half hour before had left 
the house so happy and whom she had congratulated on the 
forth’Coming marriage. “And one of you go to the Colonel’s 
and tell him of this horrible occurrence.” 

Mutely and with fleet steps they spring to do her bidding. 

“Joe, run to the house and secure some water, Janette has 
faints, and make haste about it, too.” 

She did not have to bid him a second time, for he scam- 
pered off as fast as his legs could carry him, returning with 
the required water and in addition a bottle of smelling salts. 
He stood by with wild, scared eyes, watching his mistress as 
she chafed the wrists and bathed the temples of her niece, 
until finally she was rewarded by seeing the eyelids flutter 
restlessly and finally open with wonderment expressed plainly. 

“Janette, Janette, don’t give way. Try to keep up your 
courage, for he is not dead, I believe that he is only wounded. 
Come, we have plenty to do,” and Miss Barbara gently and 
almost tenderly helps her to her feet. This unusual display of 
tenderness was unnoticed by Janette. Poor child! How she 
loved him, and now that his life was in danger, she seemed so 
helpless, so powerless to do anything, but rousing herself with 
almost a superhuman effort, she leans heavily upon her aunt’s - 
shoulder for support. 

“Then I did not dream it ? Geoffrey is hurt, perhaps dead! 
Oh, Aunt, where have they taken him? Where is Geoffrey?” 


106 


“The men have taken him to our house, and if you will 
try to control yourself, you will be of great assistance, and 1 
know that you wish to be/* 

“Indeed I do, but, oh, how horrible! Who could have 
done such a wicked deed?’* 

“Never mind that now, child. You must make up your 
mind to control yourself, or how can you help? Don’t give 
way to your feelings.” 

On reaching the house the men laid Geoffrey on the couch 
in the sitting room, and were anxiously awaiting the ladies* 
return, amid grave whispers and stifled excitement. One 
meanwhile had been hastily despatched for a doctor, who soon 
arrived, and after making an examination, said : “It is a painful 
wound, but not necessarily dangerous with careful nursing and 
attention. He will probably recover if my instructions are 
carried out. The wound luckily has not reached any vital 
part, but, of course, he is weak from loss of blood and must 
not be allowed to speak for several days.” 

All are silent and pay strict attention to his words, and 
Janette’s face loses a slight bit of the anxiety that had almost 
overwhelmed her. 

They made his bed in the sitting room, as the doctor did 
not wish him removed, and although Janette’s heart was heavy 
at his pitiable condition, she went about the room adding dainty 
touches of brightness and neatness in order to give him as 
much comfort as possible upon his return to consciousness. 


107 


The Colonel, who came with rapidity after receiving the 
summons, remained all night by his side, and sent for old Ma- 
haley in the morning, installing her in Miss Barbara’s kitchen, 
there to remain until Geoffrey should be able to return to his 
uncle’s home. Colonel Desmond did not leave, however, until 
the next afternoon, and when he arrived at the hall, his first 
inquiry was for Howard. He learned he had not been seen 
since the evening tea the night previous, and all at the hall 
thought he was over to Miss Barbara’s. Several minor things 
so unimportant at the time recurred to his mind which would 
otherwise have soon been forgotten, but he now felt they were 
of the greatest importance; he, therefore, sent his servants 
around the neighborhood to make inquiries about him, but all 
returned with the same answer that no one had seen him lately 
or knew of his whereabouts. His grief was great, and he waited 
with anxious dread until the time that Geoffrey should be able 
to tell of his assailant and that night’s dark, cruel work. 

At length he was permitted to talk, but to the consterna- 
tion of all refused to tell who his assailant was. 

“Should I tell you, it would only cause sorrow and dis- 
grace. Is not what I have already told you sufficient ?” he asks. 

But there is only a repetition of an earnest request to di- 
vulge the guilty one by his uncle, and not until Janette joins 
him in this request does he reluctantly and sadly tell them all 
that had transpired between them on that fateful night, from 


108 


the moment he had left Janette until he had received the 
blow so nearly robbing him of his life. 

Colonel Desmond’s head is bowed in disgrace and his heart 
is very heavy as he says. ‘‘Geoffrey, I suspected as much. 
Something has warned me of evil lately, a most fearful pre- 
sentiment, and to think that Howard, whom I was so proud of, 
should have committed this deed !” 

“But I do not wish you to search for him, for I believe he 
was not rational at the time, and his conscience will punish him 
sufficiently. Uncle. He surely did not know what he did, his 
anger mastered him so completely,” pleads Geoffrey in his 
behalf. 

The winter winds howl loud and long. The snow lays in 
drifts high and deep, and the wild scenery far and near pre- 
sents a mantle of snowy whiteness, covering every object with 
its clinging feathery flakes. How blinding is the sleet as it 
blows in one’s face and one plunges knee deep in the snow so 
dazzlingly crisp and bright. The trees bend and sway, while 
the wild moaning and soughing of the wind reminds one of 
some lost soul in torment longing to be freed from its bond- 
age; the trees and bushes themselves half covered with their 
frozen sheet of ice look like grim spectres, and hazy and indis- 
tinct in the blinding whirl of the icy particles. All is lonely 
and desolate, no sign of habitation, no sign of life anywhere. 
But halt! What is that little dark object in the dim distance, 


109 


SO small as to be almost indiscernible? Tis the solitary habi- 
tation of an old hermit in these western wilds, almost screened 
from view by its icy barriers and closely grown trees and 
bushes, and should we peep within this lonely little habitation, 
we might see the old hermit himself sadly musing by his fire- 
side, the only bright and cheering bit of color in all this gloom 
and desolation. The ruddy glow from the fire floods the room 
with its comforting light, although a lamp is burning dimly 
on the roughly boarded table in the corner upon which lay 
some well worn books and magazines; a few chairs, very 
crudely put together, are grouped around the room, and ex- 
cept for a mat of shaggy white fur, the floor is bare, but the 
cleanly though rough boards are smooth and shiny, and the 
whole room presents thorough neatness. The old hermit him- 
self sits before his fireside, his head buried in his hands deep 
in thought, his long white beard almost sweeping the floor, as 
he looks steadily into the mass of glowing coals, perhaps form- 
ing pictures to his mind’s view of familiar scenes now buried 
with the past. Days of youth, like fairy visions, flit silently 
past, then again when manhood, with its bright rosy hues of 
happiness and hope crowns his path ; still again another scene. 
An idolized wife and prattling baby boy, the pride of his heart, 
and all is happiness and one short, sweet dream, these the best 
moments of his life; then again the scene changes and the 
panorama of thought grows dark as hades. A fiend clothed 
in the dark shade of green with vengeance strikes, and then 


no 


desolation, misery and flight. The anguish, the sadness of this 
scene disturbs him greatly, and he calls out in pain. ^Why, 
oh why, turn back the leaves of time, old pamphlet? Those 
echoes of the past are dead, forever gone, forever gone. Have 
I not suffered, have I not repented during these long lonely 
years? Why come to me to-night to torment me afresh, to 
bring back bitter memories I long to forget. Could I live those 
years again, could I but turn back the leaves of time, how dif- 
ferent would everything be, so why torment me and make my 
life more bitter? Is it not sad enough?” 

Thus he communes, with no one to answer him, no one to 
heed his sad, solemn voice, except the weird moaning of the 
wind, and the popping and bursting of coals in the grate, for 
even Sanko, the dog, his only pet and comfort in this great 
weary world, lay soundly sleeping, and breathing heavily at 
his feet, curled up cozily near his master. 

“I wonder why it is that to-night I should be bothered with 
my thoughts more than usual? Perhaps this solemn wintry 
night is effecting me strangely. I cannot be at peace.” 

Sanko suddenly awakens from his sleep, pricks up his ears 
and blinking and stretching himself sleepily, tries to bring into 
his tired limbs some life. He listens ! He pricks up his ears 
again, and suddenly in the solemn stillness he gives vent to one 
loud, pitiful bark, shrill and long, finally dying away gradually 
into a moan and whine. 

“Down, Sanko! Down, sir! Why cannot you sleep?” 


Ill 


His companion only listens for a moment, then gazes with 
pleading looks at his master, and then obediently but reluc- 
tantly turns, and stretching himself by the warmth of the fire, 
gives vent to low whines and an occasional grunt of disap- 
pointment. 

Again the hermit begins to mutter in his mental distress. 
“Why can I not forget the past ? Can I by self-denial and good 
deeds wipe out that curse?” then, reaching for his time-worn 
Bible, he commenced to read aloud : Psalm CXLIII, verse 1. 

1. Hear my prayer, O Lord, give ear to my supplica- 
tions : in Thy faithfulness, and in Thy righteousness. 

2. And enter not into judgment with thy servant; for in 
Thy sight shall no man living be justified. 

3. For the enemy hath persecuted my soul ; he hath smit- 
ten my life down to the ^ground; he hath made me dwell in 
darkness, as those that have been long dead. 

4. Therefore, is my spirit overwhelmed within me; my 
heart within me is desolate. 

5. I remember the days of old, I meditate on all thy 
works ; I muse on the work of thy hands. 

6. I stretch forth my hands unto Thee : my soul thirsteth 
after Thee, as a thirsty land Selah. 

7. Hear me speedily, O Lord: my spirit faileth: hide 
not Thy face from me lest I be like unto them that go down 
into the pit. 


112 


8. Cause me to hear Thy loving kindness in the morning ; 
for in Thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I 
should walk; for I lift up my soul unto Thee. 

9. Deliver me, O Lord, from mine enemies: I flee unto 
Thee to hide me. 

10. Teach me to do Thy will; for thou art my God: Thy 
spirit is good ; lead me into the land of uprightness. 

11. Quicken me, O Lord, for Thy namesake: for Thy 
righteousness’ sake bring my soul out of trouble. 

12. And of Thy mercy cut off mine enemies, and destroy 
all them that afflict my soul ; for I am Thy servant. 

Again his dog creeps up with whines and interrupts his 
prayer, whining low at first, but finding no attention is being 
paid him, loudly barks. The old man gently pats him on the 
head, and again bids him to lie down. Sanko walks toward 
the door and gives several loud howls and yelps, and restlessly 
walks toward his master and, then back to the door again. 

“Good dog,” says he, patting his favorite on the head. 
“Come lay down here and rest. What is the matter? I won- 
der what you would tell me if you could talk?” 

Sanko crouches most pitifully for a moment, then sud- 
denly bounds again toward the door and listens, breathing 
heavily. 

His master listens, too, but can hear not the slightest 
sound, and thinks the dog is but restless and wishes to be out 
in the night air. 


113 


“Well, old fellow, I see you will not be content, but I am 
in no mood to go with you to-night; if you are bound to go, 
you must go alone,” so opening the door, he peers out into^he 
whirling scene without, and Sanko leaps into the snow joyfully, 
and soon disappears into the darkness and gloom. 

“Poor fellow, he has been housed too much during this 
storm,” says he sympathetically, and again he seats himself to 
read, but by a chance glance he notices his fire needs replen- 
ishing, so piling several large hickory logs across the stones 
used* as andirons, was about to return to his seat when the 
loud barking of Sanko attracts his attention. He opens the 
door and the next instant in dashes the dog freely hurling the 
snow around, as his shaggy fur is well covered with flakes, 
but not content to yet remain, jumps around his master and 
catches him by the coat, coaxing to persuade him to go with 
him. 

“So that is what you want?” 

His master sees he must go, as he knows only too well 
what those signs mean, so getting his lantern, bearskin coat, 
and flask of brandy, which he always keeps for cases of emer- 
gency, silently follows the dog out of the house and into the 
deep snow without, but cannot keep up with him, and only by 
the flickering rays from the lantern can distinguish him now 
here, now there, as he bounds and disappears among the snow 
drifts, but his continual barking leads him onward to he knows 
not where, as he battles with the wintry elements. Finally he 


114 


knows he will soon reach the spot the brute has found by the 
joyous bark of Sanko, so going along swiftly as possible, he 
finds the dog digging in a large drift of snow, which as he dug 
flew in all directions. 

'‘Bravo, bravo,” he cries encouragingly, “I am coming,” 
and he rapidly reaches the spot, and finds he has indeed work 
to do. With great zeal he helps Sanko to unearth the dark 
object frozen stiff and almost buried in the drift. They finally 
succeed, and he places his hand beneath the man’s clothing 
(for such it was) to see if a spark of life remains. Yes, he 
thinks there is, but very faint. Pressing the flask between the 
lips he succeeds in pouring down a few drops, and swinging 
him across his back, he trudges swiftly as his burden will per- 
mit, homeward, with Sanko leaping joyfully in advance, not 
so swiftly as formerly, but running backwards and forwards 
as though to encourage his master onward. Finally, after a 
breathless struggle, they reach the hut, and staggering with 
his burden, the hermit enters and hastens to try to restore 
animation into the apparently lifeless body, and was, after 
several hours of vigorous rubbing in order to circulate the 
blood, rewarded with success. Placing him on his rude but 
only couch, and wrapping him in his buffalo robe snugly, he 
waits until he hears him sleeping, and then wearily resumes 
his old chair, there to sleep until the dawn of day, giving up 
his couch to this unknown stranger whom he has saved so 
miraculously. Sanko now lies peacefully sleeping by the 


115 


hearth, now perfectly contented, as can be seen from the reg- 
ular breathing, and perfect abandonment of weariness. All 
through the long night the wind keeps up its serenade of weird, 
mournful music, but soon after the break of day the hermit 
awakes, and stretching his cramped and weary limbs, begins 
making preparations for his frugal meal. The savory fumes 
soon penetrate the sleeping man^s nostrils and awaken his 
sleeping senses. He starts up exclaiming, ‘‘Where am I ? Am 
I dead, and is this another world?” and he raises himself on 
his elbow and looks around, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

Sanko arises, and with a low growl stalks over to the 
couch, but the stranger draws back. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the hermit, “He is your friend. 
If it had not been for him you would not now be here, but 
still in the snow, and perhaps in another world. He found 
you last night, and between us we got you here in time to 
save you.” 

“Then I am not dead? This is the same dreary, weary 
world?” he asks incredulously. 

Sanko looks from master to stranger, and then lay down 
quietly by the couch without even a growl. 

“Don’t worry,” said the hermit, “but lie here until I get 
you something to eat, and then you may, if you wish, tell me 
something of yourself. I seldom have visitors, but at times 
my dog and I give help to a wanderer in distress, and all that 


116 


I can do for you I gladly will. You are welcome, thrice wel- 
come to such as I have.’’ 

While he was talking he was stirring a mess of porridge 
over the blazing fire. 

“My,” said the stranger, “but that smells good, I can eat 
it I know. I am so hungry.” 

“Well hunger is the best medicine for you,” and dipping 
up a large bowl of the steaming porridge, brought it to the 
stranger. “If you wish more, I have plenty to which you are 
heartily welcome. I have no one to feed but my true friend 
whom you see watching anxiously for his breakfast. Now 
old fellow, here is yours. Watch it until it cools.” 

The stranger was indeed hungry and devoured all in the 
bowl, but did not wish it replenished at present. The old man 
smiled good humoredly as he sat down the bowl, then opening 
his Bible, commenced to read, as was his daily custom. 

The stranger lay feigning sleep, while the old man read 
aloud several chapters, then closing his book, drew near the 
couch, and gazed earnestly at the stranger for sometime. 
Heaving a long drawn sigh, he mutters, “I wonder who he is? 
The likeness is very strong. It brings old memories forcibly 
back again.” 

Soon he became busily engaged in his simple affairs. 
Finally the stranger moved about uneasily, and yawning loudly, 
opens his eyes and inquires, “How long have I been here, sir? 


117 


I think I will sit up a while if you will kindly assist me to a 
seat by the fire.” 

“Gladly,” replied the other stepping up and suiting the 
action to the word, soon had him ensconsed as comfortably as 
the circumstances would permit. After telling him of the sup- 
posed time he relapsed into silence. 

“When do you suppose it will be possible for me to re- 
sume my journey? That is, when do you think the weather 
will permit?” 

“Not for some time. It is still snowing and now lays in 
drifts deep and high. You could not proceed but a short dis- 
tance, and I fear you would not be as fortunate as last night, 
for this old hut is the only one for miles around. Make your- 
self as contented as possible until the storm has passed, then 
perhaps the sun will shine sufficiently to melt the snow and 
form a crust which will become strong enough to bear your 
weight, and enable you to travel safely. But may I ask where 
you are going? It is so seldom that travelers pass this way, 
and you surely could not have known of our severe storms and 
the danger to which you were subjecting yourself. Some- 
times Sanko and I are shut in our little home for weeks at a 
time, but I do not think this storm will be of so long a dura- 
tion.” 

“I am going in search of my father. I have not seen him 
for years, in fact since I was a child, but have always had the 
desire to find him. I do not know that he lives, and should I 


118 


meet him I would not, of course, recognize him. When last 
my uncle heard of him he was out in this direction. Well, 
well, I am a young man, and if he still lives, I hope to find him ; 
when my small means give out I can then work.” 

“You do not look very strong, or used to work of any kind. 
What is your father’s name? Perhaps he has stopped here 
sometime. I hope you will not think me too inquisitive.” 

“My father’s name is the same as my ovm, which is How- 
ard Wilmott.” 

“Howard Wilmott !” and he looks startled and amazed for 
a moment, but almost immediately recovers from the shock 
caused by the mention of that name, and says quite hurriedly, 
“No, no, he has never stopped here. No one by that name,” 
and staggering against the old rickety table, came near falling. 

All this did not escape Howard’s notice, and he became 
alarmed and thought him suddenly faint with sickness or age. 
It was not so, however, for he soon rallied and made no fur- 
ther reference to the subject, but was talkative and more as- 
siduous in his attentions to his guest than ever, who became 
deeply interested in this mysterious old hermit during his so- 
journ, which lengthened into weeks before the weather per- 
mitted his leaving. He then expressed his gratitude, saying, 
“If it is ever in my power to compensate you for your kindness 
to me, I will joyfully do so. I can never thank you enough for 
your kindness to me, and believe me. Heaven will surely re- 
ward you for your goodness to the friendless and distressed.” 


119 


The old hermit looks long, thoughtfully, and sadly with 
misty eyes into Howard’s face, and places his old, trembling 
hands upon his head saying, “May God in His loving mercy 
bless and keep you from all evil, my son, preserve you from 
all temptations and bring you at last to his home above. If the 
prayers of this old recluse amounts to anything, go in peace 
and you will indeed be blessed,” then, going to an old box, 
iron bound and rusty with age, he drew forth a package, bulky 
and heavy. 

“Here, take this, and if ever you find your father of whom 
you are in search, give them to him. With jealous care always 
keep this ring in memory of the old hermit of Mount Zeriah. 
My dear friend, do not worry about the obligation you think 
you owe me; ’tis little that I have done, as I have repeatedly 
told you that you were welcome. My needs are few and I keep 
my dear old friend here (as he points to the St. Bernard) fully 
supplied with venison and birds in winter, and in summer fish 
are our main diet. The kind friends for miles around seek me 
when needed, and I always keep a full supply of herbs, and 
have acquired some knowledge in concocting drinks which 
they, with a great deal of faith, use; sometimes they speedily 
recover, but at all times they are profoundly grateful. Some- 
times money is forced upon me. I keep it, knowing to refuse 
would deeply wound the giver, so take this with you, which I 
freely give, and do not question me further,” and he places 
a little bag of money into Howard’s hands. 


120 


“This bag of money,” he continues, “was given to me in 
the year of 189 — . One evening Sanko kept running to me 
and barking, and I thought I would go out just to gratify the 
dog, who had not long been under my care. Well, I followed 
him to a lonely ravine, just below here, and there I found a 
poor fellow wounded severely and lying alone; his life blood 
was slowly ebbing away from a wound in his breast, and I 
brought him home here apparently to die and to give him the 
most comfort during his remaining hours that I possibly could, 
but he did not die ! He gradually recovered, although his con- 
valescence was long and painful, and it was many weeks be- 
fore he could leave, and when he bade me farewell, with 
almost tears in his eyes, he insisted that I take that little bag 
of gold, if only to remember him. I had no need of it, and told 
him so, quite plainly, but he still insisted that I should accept 
it, and became so persistent that I finally succumbed. He, 
however, would not tell me his name. Why, I cannot imagine, 
but he said that the man that wounded him professed to be his 
friend, and had been his companion for several years in their 
toils. He regretted deeply the loss of his gold, for which he 
had toiled incessantly to accumulate for his little daughter, 
and was returning home well laden. His companion also had 
a snug sum, but not nearly so much as he, therefore, not hav- 
ing worked so hard for its gain. He would not even divulge 
the false friend’s name. Now you take the gold and per- 


121 


haps it will be of some good to you, for it is of no use to me 
and never will be/’ 

“But please tell me who you are, so that I shall know who 
it is that is so remarkably kind to me. You surely must know 
my father by sending this package to him.” 

“Why do you question me? Tis far better to let well 
enough alone.” 

“But can you not tell me just a little?” 

“Well, yes ; I knew him long ago, but do as I say and per- 
haps some day you will know more of me.” Shaking him 
heartily by the hand, he looks earnestly into Howard’s face. 

Sanko looks pleadingly from one to the other, and Howard 
stooping down, pats him on the head, while tears freely fall, 
then turning, he swiftly disappears from view. The old man 
closed the door, and throwing himself on his couch is deeply 
affected by the reminiscence of the past. 

** ♦♦slsslcsl!:*: 

“Janette, are you still sitting here?” asks Geoffrey, who 
had just awakened from a pleasant nap, as he catches a glimpse 
of the pretty, neatly clothed figure in the rocking chair, knit- 
ting. “What a faith fu) little nurse you are,” and he looks 
happily into her charifiing face. “How long have I been 
asleep?” 

“Oh, not very long, not more than two hours at the most. 
I could see your dream was pleasant, for you were smiling in 
your sleep every once in a while.” 


122 


“I did? Yes, I had a dream about you, and you may be 
sure, dear, it was pleasant,’* and he commences to tell of his 
dream to her. 

‘‘I must leave you now, but I will soon be back again,” 
and with a smile she disappears through the doorway. In a 
few minutes in came Miss Barbara. 

“I am certainly disgusted with Mr. Quigley. He has noi 
been over for a long time, and now I hope he will stay away 
altogether,” says she sedately, and with great indignation, seat- 
ing herself near the invalid. 

“Poor man!” ejaculates he sympathetically, “you surely 
are not intending to give him the ‘grand bounce,’ as someone 
expresses it?” asks Geoffrey. 

His amusement is keen, but he manages to repress the 
smiles that lurk dangerously around his mouth. He does not 
wish to incur her anger. 

“Poor man, indeed ! My patience is gone, and I shall just 
show him that I can do very well without seeing him. So you 
sympathize with him? Man like! I never yet saw or heard 
tell of one yet that did not take up for their own sex.” 

Geoffrey felt like telling her that perhaps her acquaint- 
ance with the opposite sex had been very meagre, but refrained 
from doing so, and instead says mildly, “Well, Miss Barbara, 
you should consider how much happier it will make him when 
he is favored by seeing you once again.” 


123 


She is somewhat pacified by this remark, and is about to 
content herself by renewing hope, when she spies a familiar 
face and exclaims with great perturbation, “Why here he 
comes now!” 

“Who ?” asks he after a pause. 

“Why the parson, of course,” answers Miss Barbara, with 
great excitement and happiness. “I am so flurried I don’t 
know what to do,” and she flounces out of the room to ex- 
change her apparel so as to appear most winning, leaving 
Geoflfrey staring after her in mock wonderment. 

He laughs long and heartily. Miss Barbara was indeed 
amusing, but as he hears voices in the hallway, he considers 
it time to look a little more serious, and by the time the door 
is opened to usher in Janette and the parson, he has recovered 
his usual equanimity. 

“How are you, Mr. Desmond? I have been intending to 
come over for several weeks, but this neighborhood is so full 
of disease that my duties have kept me away. Thanks,” says 
he, seating himself in the chair Janette has proffered. 

“Oh, I am getting along finely, thanks to my pretty nurse 
here,” says Geoffrey boldly and smilingly. 

“Glad to hear it,” but his thoughts run about as follows : 
“I might as well give up trying to win Miss Janette, for if two 
good-looking fellows love her and one gets the bounce, I would 
like to know what would happen to me? Yes, I guess I had 
better give her up and have Miss Barbara after all. She will 


124 


make a good housekeeper, and it is likely she will have me, for 
she kept thinking it was herself I wanted, so now I will try to 
content myself and propose to her in earnest/* 

Aloud he continues most pleasantly, “How is Miss Bar- 
bara ?** 

At this moment she appears in the doorway, answering 
for herself, “Very well, thank you. I am so glad to see you, 
my dear Mr. Quigley.** 

“And you are looking as bright as ever,** he says, by way 
of a good beginning. 

“Oh, indeed, my dear Mr. Quigley, you flatter me,** and 
she smirks and smiles confusedly. 

“I suppose you do not enjoy this confinement to the 
house?** he says, turning to Geoffrey. “And your accident, 
well, when I heard the news I was horrified completely. I 
would have liked to be of some help, but knowing that you 
would have plenty of attention with two such good nurses, I 
almost feared to offer my services, although it would have 
given me pleasure.** 

“Yes, I am sure you would, interposes Miss Barbara ve- 
hemently. “I know how very good-hearted you are, my dear 
Mr. Quigley,** she says greatly elated and feeling complimented 
by his last remark. 

He had addressed himself to Geoffrey, but he has no 
chance of answering, so now he turns to “the fair one** and 
looks most gratefully at her, and as she afterwards expresses 


125 


herself to Janette as she describes her feelings, “I felt so 
flurried that I felt like falling through the floor.” However, 
this catastrophe did not happen, and the parson continues, “I 
came over as soon as I could in order to learn how the patient 
was progressing and — well, to see you all again.” 

“It is not at all unpleasant I can assure you, Mr. Quigley, 
to be confined in the house when one does have so much at- 
tention and is spoiled so much as I have been of late,” says 
Geoffrey. “You have no idea how nice it is to be an invalid 
sometimes.” 

“Yes, I can imagine so,” and he looks straight at Miss 
Barbara, who drops her eyes most becomingly. 

“I, for one, will not submit to be accused of spoiling you,” 
says Janette, “for I do not believe you could ever be spoiled, 
at any rate, you make a very good patient.” 

“Good for you. Miss Janette,” says Mr. Quigley, with a 
forced laugh. “That is right, do not let him get ahead of you 
like that.” He turns to Geoffrey. “It must be most pleasant 
to have a young lady compliment one like that ?” 

“I should imagine you would make a most pleasant pa- 
tient,” Miss Barbara says pathetically. 

“There you have no cause to complain,” speaks up Geof- 
frey. 

“I fear you flatter me. Miss Barbara,” he says helplessly, 
“although I confess under certain conditions I would not mind 
being a patient.” 


126 


It is needless to say she is pleased, as is shown by the 
becoming blush upon her somewhat withered cheeks. 

Janette finally excuses herself, and says by way of ex- 
planation, “I fear there is some trouble in the kitchen,” and 
with a smile and blink in Geoffrey’s direction, hurries from 
the room. 

“By jove! but I am sleepy. I pray that you will excuse 
me, but really I cannot account for this sudden drowsiness,” 
says Geoffrey presently as he notes the silence and embarrass- 
ment that reigns. 

“Oh, I assure you no apology is necessary,” says Mr. 
Quigley hastily. “That is but natural to all invalids.” 

“Well then, if you should find me asleep in a few mo- 
ments, I assume that you will not take any offense,” and closing 
his eyes he tries to sleep, but finds it well nigh impossible. He 
even tries all the numerous little remedies for sleeplessness, 
such as counting to 100, etc., but cannot, so he lay reluctantly 
but amusedly listening. 

“Ahem — ahem — ^this is fine weather we are having. Miss 
Barbara,” remarks Mr. Quigley. 

“Yes, very,” she answers, although in very truth it has 
been raining almost constantly for the last few days. 

“You are looking well, and — yes — quite happy,” he ven- 
tures again after a pause. 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes.” 


127 


Then there is another duration of silence, finally broken 
by him again. 

‘T hope — ahem — Miss Barbara, you are not offended by 
my not coming sooner.” 

**Oh, no, my dear Mr. Quigley — ^that is — n-o,” she re- 
plies slowly, edging up closer toward him. 

“You see — Miss Barbara — I — I — have come to hear your 
answer to that question, momentous question, that I asked you 
sometime ago. I — I — wish to marry you.” 



4 



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